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BERTY  AND 


<:.._* 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


GIFT 

From  the  Library  of 

Henry  Goldman,    Ph.D. 

1886-1972 


Liberty  and  a  Living 

The  Record  of  an  Attempt  to  Secure 

Bread  and  Butter,  Sunshine  and 

Content,   by  Gardening 

Fishing,  and  Hunting 


BY 


Philip  G.  Hubert,  Jr. 


"  That  I  may  accomplish  some  petty,  particular  affair  well, 
I  live  my  whole  life  coarsely.  Yet  the  man  who  does  not 
betake  himself  at  once  and  desperately  to  sawing  is  called 
a  loafer,  though  he  may  be  knocking  at  the  door  of  heaven 
all  the  while,  which  shall  surely  be  opened  to  him.  I  can  see 
nothing  so  holy  as  unrelaxed  play  and  frolic  in  this  bower 
God  has  built  for  us.1'  — H.  D.  THOREAU. 

"The  royal  peace  of  a  rural  home."— W.  S.  WARD. 


Second  Edition,  with  New  Preface 


G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

New  York  and   London 
f?ntcherbocfeer  press 
1904 


COPYRIGHT,  1889,  BY 
G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 


COPYRIGHT,  1903,  BY 
G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 
Published,  January,  1904 


Che  ftnfcberbocfter  press,  flew  jporb 


5 
521 


PREFACE   TO   SECOND    EDITION 

Liberty  and  a  Living  was  first  published 
nearly  fifteen  years  ago.  It  is  hardly  neces- 
sary to  say  that  during  these  years  its  sale  has 
not  been  such  as  to  warrant  the  belief  that  the 
world  had  received  this  "gospel  of  idleness," 
as  one  of  my  critics  called  it,  with  anything 
like  enthusiasm.  Nevertheless,  that  the  little 
book  has  been  read  by  a  good  many  interested 
people  is  shown  in  the  several  hundred  letters 
that  have  reached  me  from  Maine  to  California 
commending  my  courage,  deploring  my  in- 
sanity, pitying  my  wife  and  children,  or  asking 
advice.  I  have  been  denounced  as  an  immoral 
person  who  held  up  a  mirage  as  the  goal  toward 
which  men  should  strive.  It  has  been  predicted 
that  I  might  have  many  letters  from  those 
weak-minded  enough  to  follow  my  advice,  but 
that  they  would  be  dated  from  this  or  that 
county  poor-house  and  would  all  begin:  "We 


iv  Preface 

have  tried  your  plan  and  —  here  we  are." 
Other  correspondents  have  advised  me  to  wait 
a  few  years  and  then  acknowledge  my  folly. 
Well,  I  have  waited  fifteen  years  without 
meeting  any  criticism  that  I  consider  destruc- 
tive of  the  main  thesis  of  the  book — namely, 
that  thousands  of  people  pay  too  much  for 
their  money,  and  that  it  is  possible  to  make  a 
small  income  go  much  further  in  the  purchase 
of  peace,  culture,  sunshine,  and  happiness  than 
is  commonly  thought  possible.  But  I  must 
repeat  that  the  scheme  of  life  outlined  in 
Liberty  and  a  Living  is  not  for  every  one;  it 
presupposes  an  uncommon  capacity  for  enjoy- 
ment in  nature,  books,  and  very  simple  living. 
The  problem  is  complicated  by  the  question : 
What  is  best  for  the  children?  Good  schools 
are  expensive,  and  perhaps  the  best  that  a 
father  can  do  for  his  children  at  home  falls 
short  of  school  training. 

To  my  many  correspondents  I  have  a  word 
of  apology  to  offer.  I  could  not  answer  all 
their  letters,  many  of  them  long  and  kindly, 
and  so  I  made  it  a  rule  to  answer  none.  To 
answer  them  all  would  be  seriously  to  curtail 


Preface  v 

my  liberty  and — stamps  for  a  reply  being  the 
exception — to  take  away  some  of  my  living. 
I  would  also  add  a  word  of  warning:  Don't 
take  the  book  too  literally.  If  you  are  willing 
to  sacrifice  much  for  the  sake  of  fresh  air  and 
the  release  from  the  treadmill,  accept  these 
notes,  from  one  who  has  tried  the  simpler  life, 
as  random  suggestions, — nothing  more. 


P.  G.  H.,  JR. 


NEW  YORK,  October,  1903. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

I. — THE  PROBLEM  TO  BE  SOLVED    .         .  i 
II. — A   RICH   POOR  MAN   AND   A   POOR 

RICH  ONE       .....  7 
III. — SOME    EXPERIMENTS   IN    LIVING   ON 

NEXT  TO  NOTHING  A  YEAR  .         .  18 

IV. — THE  SORT  OF  LIFE  WE  LEAD     .         .  28 

V. — WHAT  MY  CRITICS  WILL  SAY     .         .  43 

VI. — HOME 54 

VII. — DETAILS  AND  DOLLARS — MY  GARDEN  70 

VIII. — WITH  FISH-LINES  AND  NETS     .         .  96 

IX. WE  GO  A-FlSHING       .  .  .  .112 

X. — MY  BEES  ......  135 

XI. — "  DEAD  TREES  LOVE  THE  FIRE  "      .  153 
XII. — THE  LIFE  WORTH  LIVING  —  HENRY 

DAVID  THOREAU    .         .         .         -171 

XIII. — WHAT  WE  LOSE  AND  WHAT  WE  GAIN  200 
XIV. — THE   DANGERS  OF  CUTTING    LOOSE 

FROM  TOWN  DRUDGERY          .         .  241 


LIBERTY  AND  A  LIVING 


THE   PROBLEM   TO   BE   SOLVED 

IT  may  be  well  to  say  at  the  outset  that  by 
the  word  liberty  I  do  not  mean  idleness, 
the  two  having  no  connection  in  my  mind. 
By  liberty  and  a  living,  as  contrasted  with 
work  and  a  living,  I  mean  the  getting  of  bread 
and  butter,  clothes  and  shelter  for  my  little 
ones  and  myself  by  the  exercise  of  common 
skill  in  gardening,  fishing,  shooting,  and  other 
out-door  sports.  This  entails  no  anxious  work, 
no  tedious  grind  of  routine  in  dusty  towns 
and  musty  offices.  It  is  life  in  the  sunshine. 
It  gives  bread  and  butter,  and  contentment, 
if  not  fortune.  It  offers  health  and  oppor- 
tunities for  intellectual  recreation  beyond  the 
reach  of  most  men  under  our  present  system. 


2        The  Problem  to  be  Solved 

Life,  to  the  average  man,  means  hard,  anx- 
ious work,  with  disappointment  at  the  end, 
whereas  it  ought  to  mean  pleasant  work,  with 
plenty  of  time  for  books  and  talk.  There  is 
something  wrong  about  a  system  which  con- 
demns ninety-nine  hundredths  of  the  race  to 
an  existence  as  bare  of  intellectual  activity  and 
enjoyment  as  that  of  a  horse,  and  with  the 
added  anxiety  concerning  the  next  month's 
rent.  Is  there  no  escape?  Throughout  years 
of  hard  toil  I  suspected  that  there  might  be 
such  an  escape.  Now,  having  escaped,  1  am 
sure  of  it.  So  long  as  I  can  get  a  house  and 
garden  for  three  dollars  a  week,  so  long  as 
oatmeal  is  less  than  three  cents  a  pound,  so 
long  as  the  fish  bite  and  the  cabbages  grow,  I 
shall  keep  out  of  the  slavery  of  modern  city 
existence,  I  shall  live  in  God's  sunshine  and 
enjoy  my  children's  prattle,  my  books  and 
papers. 

For  a  good  many  years  I  worked  hard  at 
newspaper  correspondence  and  miscellaneous 
writing  without  doing  more  than  keep  my 
family  in  the  most  modest  way  of  life.  I  went 
to  my  desk  early  and  remained  late.  Year 


The  Problem  to  be  Solved        3 

after  year  I  dreamed  of  the  day  when  my  bank 
account  should  be  large  enough  to  allow  me  at 
least  a  few  months  for  that  out-door  work  and 
sport  I  love  so  well ;  yet  the  day  of  rest  seemed 
to  grow  more  distant  rather  than  nearer. 
Gradually  this  idea  took  possession  of  me: 
Why  is  it  not  possible  for  a  healthy  man,  yet 
strong  and  in  the  enjoyment  of  youth,  to  make 
bread  and  butter  for  his  little  ones  and  himself 
without  chaining  himself  down  to  a  life  of 
drudgery,  without  passing  most  of  his  time 
away  from  those  he  loves,  without  devoting 
his  life  to  work  which  is  drudgery,  which  is 
hard,  which  tells  upon  a  man's  vitality  day 
by  day?  What  am  I  good  for?  At  what 
work  which  does  not  require  a  daily  routine 
in  a  city  office  can  I  make  enough  money 
for  our  simple  life?  By  degrees  these  ques- 
tions began  to  assume  a  personal  importance. 
Was  it  possible  that  I,  with  my  horror  of  the 
city,  its  bustling  monotony,  its  petty  con- 
cern for  inanities,  could  find  work  which  would 
offer  me  freedom  and  bread  and  butter?  I 
wanted  no  work  which  would  keep  me  in- 
doors from  the  beginning  of  April  to  the  end 


4        The  Problem  to  be  Solved 

of  December,  no  work  which  would  every  day 
compel  me  to  say  good-bye  to  my  children  in 
the  early  morning.  Of  course  such  a  life  must 
be  found  in  the  country,  if  anywhere,  and  in 
country  occupations.  To  some  people  this 
might  mean  in  itself  misery.  To  me,  with  my 
love  of  sunshine,  it  is  otherwise.  During  the 
years  when  I  was  tied  to  a  desk  from  morning 
till  night,  the  very  sight  of  the  agricultural 
papers  among  my  exchanges,  even  in  the  dead 
of  winter,  was  sufficient  to  make  me  feel  like 
throwing  business  overboard  and  getting  into 
country  life,  even  if  nothing  better  than  po- 
tato-raising presented  itself.  At  the  same  time 
that  I  thought  and  talked  about  the  miseries 
of  city  life  I  was  by  no  means  blind  to  the 
dangers  of  the  country. 

Any  attempt  to  cut  loose  from  city  life  in 
summer  might  result  in  the  city  cutting  loose 
from  me  in  winter.  Where,  then,  would  be 
my  music,  my  opera,  my  theatres,  my  lectures? 
As  a  newspaper  man  I  had  become  accustomed 
to  all  these  things  as  a  part  of  existence.  As 
I  had  lived  for  years  in  the  heart  of  the  con- 
tinent's life,  the  quiet  of  a  country  winter 


The  Problem  to  be  Solved        5 

might  pall  upon  me,  and  when  the  papers 
brought  me  news  of  great  events  in  the  world 
of  art  I  might  feel  that  I  was  losing  more  than 
I  had  gained.  And  my  friends  and  acquaint- 
ances were  not  slow  in  pointing  out  to  me  that 
even  if  I  worked  hard  and  intelligently  as  a 
farmer  I  could  not  be  sure  of  making  a  com- 
fortable living;  and  their  picture  of  a  farmer's 
life  made  much  of  early  rising,  long  hours  of 
work,  bodily  exhaustion,  an  unceasing  battle 
with  Nature,  and  a  gradual  relapse,  intellec- 
tually, to  the  level  of  other  farmers  —  good 
men,  perhaps,  but  dull-witted  in  all  matters 
not  connected  with  crops  and  stock.  My 
friends  predicted  that  a  year  or  two  of  farming 
would  result  either  in  the  loss  of  all  interest  in 
literature,  science,  and  art,  or  I  would  become 
heartily  sick  of  country  life  and  eager  to  get 
back  to  town  at  any  cost.  I  would  find,  they 
said,  that  books  and  magazines  lost  their  in- 
terest after  a  day's  work  in  the  fields;  that 
gradually  there  would  be  less  talk  about  art  and 
music,  and  more  about  corn  and  calves.  The 
life  of  hard  physical  labor  would  end  in  blunt- 
ing the  intellectual  perceptions.  I  recognize 


6        The  Problem  to  be  Solved 

perfectly  the  existence  of  such  dangers,  and 
that  is  one  reason  why  I  should  no  more 
think  of  ordinary  farm  life  for  myself  than  I 
should  undertake  to  compete  with  an  Irish 
laborer  in  the  raising  of  potatoes  for  market. 
The  question  resolved  itself  into  this :  Is  there 
an  occupation,  or  are  there  occupations,  in 
which  a  fairly  intelligent  man,  willing  to  work, 
can  make  a  living  in  the  country  without  re- 
sorting to  the  exhausting  labor  of  the  farm, 
for  which  he  is  physically  unfitted?  I  deter- 
mined to  make  experiments. 


A    RICH    POOR    MAN    AND    A    POOR 
RICH    ONE 

YESTERDAY  one  of  my  neighbors  died, 
killed  by  an  accident.  A  rich  man  who, 
in  the  eyes  of  the  world,  or  of  that  little  bit  of 
it  in  which  we  move,  had  attained  everything 
that  man  could  wish  for.  Beginning  life  a 
poor  boy,  he  made  a  large  fortune  by  dealing 
in  lard.  He  was  looked  up  to  in  the  lard 
trade;  his  judgment  upon  lard  was  final.  A 
religious  man  in  the  hackneyed  sense  of  the 
word,  he  had  done  much  for  the  sect  to  which 
he  belonged,  and  was  cited  as  a  model  layman. 
He  gave  large  sums  to  churches  and  church 
colleges,  and  contributed  to  the  fund  for  send- 
ing missionaries  to  foreign  parts.  As  a  family 
man,  as  a  husband  and  father,  he  was,  for  all 
that  I  know,  an  exemplary  person.  I  never 
knew  him  to  smile;  but  severity  of  expression 
may  have  been  constitutional.  With  his  large 
7 


A  Rich  Poor  Man 

wealth  he  built  himself  a  pleasant  though  com- 
monplace home,  the  house  surrounded  by  large 
grounds,  in  which  a  dozen  gardeners  were  kept 
busy.  When  not  too  tired,  it  was  his  practice 
to  stroll  through  his  grounds  and  garden  in  the 
cool  of  the  evening.  But  his  attachment  to 
his  country  home  in  New  Jersey  was  not  such 
as  to  keep  him  from  going  to  the  city  every 
day  in  the  year  except  Sundays  and  legal  holi- 
days; it  was  his  boast  that  he  never  took  a 
vacation,  poor  man.  At  half-past  seven  in  the 
morning  his  carriage  took  him  to  the  station, 
and  at  six  o'clock  in  the  evening  it  took  him 
home  again.  He  was  a  bank  director  never 
known  to  miss  a  board  meeting ;  and  when  he 
died  the  directors  of  his  bank  had  resolutions 
printed  in  several  newspapers  deploring  the 
loss  which  the  institution  had  suffered.  "He 
died  in  harness, ' '  said  one  of  his  fellow-directors 
to  the  reporter  of  a  newspaper,  "a  representa- 
tive American  business  man.  His  knowledge 
of  the  lard  market  was  wonderful;  he  could 
give  you  off-hand  the  day's  quotations  in  lard 
for  Chicago,  Buenos  Ayres,  London,  Paris, 
and  Timbuctoo."  A  man  without  an  idea  be- 


And  a  Poor  Rich  One  9 

yond  lard  and  discounts,  he  was  an  important 
figure  in  the  community.  Books,  art,  music, 
were  nothing  to  him ;  and  if  a  man's  name 
was  not  a  good  one  to  have  upon  the  back  of 
a  note,  that  man  was  not  much  to  him  either. 
The  other  day  his  coachman  allowed  the  reins 
to  slip,  the  horses  ran  away,  and  the  rich  man, 
in  trying  to  get  out,  was  killed. 

My  personal  acquaintance  with  my  rich 
neighbor  was  but  slight,  and  of  a  business 
character.  One  June  morning,  when  all  Na- 
ture was  rejoicing,  it  became  my  duty  to  look 
into  some  complaints  made  by  citizens  as  to 
stenches  supposed  to  come  from  the  neighbor- 
hood of  the  Hudson  River  at  a  point  where 
several  slaughter-  and  rendering-houses  were 
situated  in  violation  of  public  health  and  de- 
cency. I  remember  particularly  that  it  had 
been  hard  work  for  me,  young  and  strong, 
fond  of  out-door  work  in  the  sunlight,  to  leave 
my  pretty  Jersey  home  that  morning,  to  tear 
myself  away  from  my  garden,  with  its  straw- 
berries in  bloom,  from  the  river,  upon  which 
my  little  boat  nodded  an  invitation  to  sail;  to 
leave  my  children,  clamorous  for  a  day  in  the 


io  A  Rich  Poor  Man 

woods  or  on  the  water.  But  duty  in  the  shape 
of  an  investigation  into  these  evil  smells  took 
me  to  the  station,  confined  me  for  nearly  an 
hour  in  a  hot  railroad  car  along  with  some 
hundreds  of  other  unfortunates,  and  sent  me 
to  an  unpleasant  part  of  the  city.  It  happened 
that  my  rich  neighbor  was  interested  in  prop- 
erty in  that  neighborhood ;  his  firm  bought 
the  refuse  of  the  slaughter-houses,  in  order 
to  transform  it  into  good  lard.  Naturally,  I 
asked  him  as  to  the  origin  of  the  complaints. 
He  knew  nothing  of  their  origin,  but  he  was 
quite  sure  that  certain  rendering-establishments 
with  which  he  did  business  were  not  to  blame ; 
and,  to  prove  it,  he  proposed  to  take  me  over 
them  and  show  me  what  nice  places  they  were. 
I  agreed.  When  within  a  block  of  the  accused 
establishments,  the  stench  borne  on  the  wind 
was  sickening.  My  neighbor  thought  nothing 
of  it ;  he  went  there  every  morning,  and  was 
accustomed  to  it.  Having  reached  some  ren- 
dering-cellars beneath  the  slaughter-houses, 
my  neighbor  pointed  out  how  cleanly  every- 
thing was  managed :  the  fat  and  refuse,  fresh 
and  nice,  was  dropped  directly  from  the  abat- 


And  a  Poor  Rich  One          n 

toir  into  great  steam  vats,  in  which  it  was 
melted.  My  neighbor  assured  me  that  such 
was  the  care  taken  with  everything  that  he 
himself  never  missed  making  a  morning  visit 
there.  Standing  in  half  an  inch  of  fatty  mud 
and  water,  he  surveyed  the  scene  with  a  pleased 
air,  and  asked  me  whether  I  smelt  anything 
except  the  natural  odors  of  a  rendering-house. 
Many  times  since  then,  when  fortunate 
enough  to  steal  away  from  business  for  a  few 
days,  and  able  to  sail  about  in  my  boat  and 
teach  the  children  how  to  fish,  I  have  thought 
of  my  highly  respected  neighbor,  and  won- 
dered whether  he  still  paid  his  daily  visits  to 
that  horrible  place.  From  what  I  know  of  his 
doings  I  am  pretty  sure  that  he  did.  "He 
died  in  harness,  like  a  true  American,"  said 
his  fellow  bank  directors.  Very  often,  as  I 
trudged  home  from  the  river  in  the  bright 
September  and  October  evenings,  my  little 
ones  strong  with  a  whole  day's  water  sport, 
and  all  of  us  full  of  the  day's  joy,  my  rich 
neighbor  would  be  driven  quickly  by  on  his 
way  from  the  railroad  station.  Probably  he 
had  made  hundreds  of  dollars  that  day,  while 


12  A  Rich  Poor  Man 

I  had  made — what?     Had  he  paid  too  much 
for  his  money? 

I  have  another  neighbor,  by  no  means  a  rich 
man,  and  by  no  means  looked  up  to  in  the  com- 
munity,— in  fact,  scarcely  known,  except  to 
the  few  who  meet  him  out  fishing,  or  who  buy 
crabs  and  oysters  from  him.  He  is  a  jolly  old 
negro,  a  man  of  sixty  years  of  age,  something 
of  a  philosopher,  with  the  resources  of  a 
Yankee  and  the  irresponsibility  of  a  tramp. 
With  his  wife  and  children  he  leads  the  life  of 
fisherman  and  gardener.  His  nets  give  him  all 
the  fish  he  needs  and  to  sell ;  his  garden  patch 
supplies  him  with  vegetables  for  the  year;  in 
summer  he  is  his  own  master,  refusing  per- 
sistently to  work  for  others;  in  winter  he 
works  for  others  if  work  presents  itself,  but  as 
the  pork  barrel  is  deep  and  vegetables  plenty, 
his  actual  need  of  money  is  small.  Oysters 
he  can  have  for  the  getting.  This  man  has  a 
genuine  love  of  the  sunlight  and  of  untainted 
air.  When  I  sail  him  a  race  for  home,  and  we 
arrive  wet  with  the  spray  which  the  breeze  has 
thrown  at  us,  he  is  the  first  to  proclaim  his  keen 
enjoyment.  He  has  never  known  what  the 


And  a  Poor  Rich  One          13 

heat  and  dust  of  a  city  mean ;  nevertheless,  he 
values  his  life  almost  as  much  as  I  did  my  brief 
vacations.  Something  also  of  a  naturalist  in 
his  way,  he  does  not  disdain  to  carry  home 
with  him  such  queer  sea  products  as  may  inter- 
est him  or  his  grandchildren.  Spending  almost 
no  money,  his  income  is  actually  larger  than 
his  expenses,  and  he  is  able  to  pay  a  small  life 
insurance,  and  to  put  by  something  for  the  day 
when  oysters  may  be  scarce,  or  rheumatism 
may  get  the  best  of  him.  For  forty  years  he 
has  been  following  this  life.  He  is  not  a  popu- 
lar man  with  his  fellow-watermen,  because  ab- 
solutely indifferent  to  the  attractions  of  the 
village  grog-shop,  and  more  fond  of  his  family 
than  of  gossip.  His  days  are  given  to  his  gar- 
den and  his  fishing;  his  evenings  to  the  study 
of  our  county  agricultural  journal,  which  gives 
him,  in  condensed  form,  the  news  of  the  world, 
as  well  as  the  latest  directions  as  to  planting 
onions. 

Thinking  about  my  neighbor  who  died 
the  other  day,  and  my  other  neighbor  who 
still  lives  to  catch  fish  and  enjoy  the  sea 
breezes,  I  can  scarcely  repress  the  desire  to 


14  A  Rich  Poor  Man 

sympathize  deeply  with  the  one  who  got  so  lit- 
tle out  of  life.  I  know  that  such  sympathy 
would  be  received  by  his  friends  and  fellow 
bank  directors  with  amazement.  Was  he  not 
rich  and  respected?  Did  he  not  die  in  harness? 
What  more  can  a  man  want?  And  if  I  timidly 
suggest  that  there  is  a  joy  about  lobster  catch- 
ing in  an  October  breeze,  or  even  in  oystering 
in  December,  far  beyond  the  pleasure  of  mak- 
ing money  out  of  lard,  some  eminently  re- 
spectable people  I  know  will  doubt  my  sanity. 
Take  two  men,  one  of  whom  follows  the  life  of 
my  late  respected  and  rich  neighbor,  making 
existence  one  long  strain  for  money,  and  finally 
dying  in  ignorance  of  everything  but  the  price 
of  lard  in  Chicago,  Buenos  Ayres,  London, 
Paris,  and  Timbuctoo ;  on  the  other  hand,  take 
my  poor  neighbor,  who,  when  he  comes  to  die, 
will  not  even  be  mentioned  by  the  newspapers, 
whose  name  no  bank  director  ever  saw  on  the 
back  of  a  note,  who  knew  nothing  about  the 
price  of  lard  except  at  the  corner  grocery,  but 
who  enjoyed  fifty  years  of  sport,  of  gardening, 
of  fishing,  and  of  out-door  happiness.  Which 
of  these  two  men  got  the  most  out  of  life? 


And  a  Poor  Rich  One          15 

Does  the  knowledge  of  the  price  of  lard,  or 
an  obituary  notice  in  the  newspapers,  or  the 
esteem  of  Tom,  Dick,  and  Harry  atone  for  the 
loss  of  all  sport?  Does  the  man  who  makes  a 
fortune  accomplish  so  much  for  the  world  that 
his  own  happiness  or  ease  should  not  be  allowed 
to  weigh  in  the  balance?  Civilization  tends  to 
the  importance  of  the  individual.  The  middle 
ages  saw  thousands  compelled  to  labor  for  one 
lord  and  master ;  to-day  each  man  is  considered 
as  entitled  to  some  share  of  the  good  things  in 
the  world,  and  even  women  and  children  are 
coming  forward.  In  the  distant  future  each 
man  will  consider  that  the  day  is  made  for  him, 
and  that  he  who  fails  to  enjoy  himself — that  is, 
to  use  the  gifts  of  nature  rationally — is  a  fool. 
Civilization  should  mean  emancipation  from 
drudgery,  and  unquestionably  man  will  some 
day  cease  to  labor  in  the  present  meaning  of  the 
word.  When  machinery  attains  to  such  per- 
fection that  the  ground  is  ploughed,  the  seed 
is  sown,  the  crops  are  tended,  watered,  gathered 
without  the  work  of  man ;  when  power,  light, 
heat,  are  so  cheap  as  to  be  as  free  as  air 
to  every  one,  actual  labor  to  provide  food, 


1 6  A  Rich  Poor  Man 

raiment,  and  shelter  need  be  but  slight.  At 
present  we  put  a  fictitious  value  upon  labor  as 
a  moral  exercise  apart  from  results.  One  hun- 
dred years  ago  our  Puritan  ancestors  doomed 
here  and  hereafter  the  man  who  held  to  any 
but  the  most  dreary  and  dreadful  beliefs ;  sun- 
light, moral  as  well  as  physical,  to  them  partook 
more  or  less  of  the  nature  of  sin.  To-day  we 
are  in  danger  of  erring  similarly  with  regard  to 
work.  One  fetish  is  taking  the  place  of  an- 
other. I  deny  that  the  man  who  prefers  his 
lobster  boat  to  the  banker's  desk,  who  would 
rather  know  the  habits  of  the  clam  than  the 
price  of  lard  in  Chicago,  New  York,  and  those 
other  places,  is  in  danger  of  deterioration,  or 
that  his  example  is  vicious.  Let  all  the  world 
follow  your  advice,  say  the  wiseacres,  and  we 
should  drift  back  to  savagery. 

That  eminent  financier,  Mr.  Jay  Gould,  is 
said  to  have  remarked,  in  a  fit  of  depression, 
or  perhaps  in  an  attempt  to  discourage  envy  of 
his  millions,  that  his  money  gave  him  nothing 
more  than  some  clothes  to  wear,  a  house  to 
live  in,  and  some  little  luxuries.  Some  of  my 
critics  will  undoubtedly  exclaim:  "Look  at 


And  a  Poor  Rich  One  17 

Gould.  Does  he  not  enjoy  the  sea  breeze  in 
his  yacht,  and  all  the  pleasures  of  nature?" 
Perhaps  he  does,  in  a  difficult  sort  of  way, 
filtered  through  flunkeys,  so  to  speak.  But  of 
the  young  men  who  are  tempted  to  keep  their 
noses  at  the  gilded  grindstone,  how  many  will 
attain  to  the  dignity  of  a  yacht?  How  many 
will  die  in  harness  long  before  they  think  it 
possible  to  stop  work  and  begin  to  play?  How 
many  will  lose  all  capacity  for  the  enjoyment 
of  life  before  their  pile  of  gold  is  big  enough? 


SOME   EXPERIMENTS  IN   LIVING  ON 
NEXT   TO   NOTHING  A   YEAR 

ONE  of  the  great  features  of  most  of  the 
books  in  favor  of  living  upon  nothing  in 
the  country  consists  in  the  table  of  expenses, 
showing  at  the  end  of  the  month,  or  quarter, 
or  year,  where  every  penny  has  gone.  I  have 
quite  a  collection  of  such  books,  beginning 
with  Ten  Acres  Enough,  and  ending  with  a 
little  volume,  issued  within  the  last  year,  de- 
scribing how  a  lady  managed  to  live  in  comfort 
and  even  pay  rent  upon  an  income  of  $150  a 
year.  After  much  consideration  and  the  prep- 
aration of  many  tables  of  the  kind,  showing  the 
expenditure  from  day  to  day,  from  week  to 
week,  and  month  to  month,  I  confess  that  I  do 
not  see  how  such  tables  as  I  can  give  will  help 
any  person  who  wishes  to  make  the  experi- 
ment. It  is  too  much  a  matter  of  what  people 
consider  the  necessaries  of  life.  Mr.  Roose- 
18 


Nothing  a  Year  19 

velt,  in  criticising  Ten  Acres  Enough,  says  that 
Mr.  Morris,  the  author  of  that  famous  book, 
must  have  allowed  his  wife  and  daughters  to 
go  naked  for  more  than  five  years,  because,  in 
his  account  of  expenditure  at  the  end  of  the 
book,  not  a  word  is  said  as  to  the  cost  of 
clothes;  which  leads  me  to  say  that  while  I 
might  consider  myself  perfectly  happy  with 
$20  worth  of  clothes  a  year,  another  man  might 
think  it  necessary  to  spend  $100,  and  his  wife 
three  times  that  amount.  I  like  to  wear  a 
flannel  shirt  of  a  rough  kind  nearly  all  the  year 
round,  and  although  the  fashion  is  growing, 
some  excellent  people  still  consider  the  flannel 
shirt  a  badge  of  social  degradation.  My  chil- 
dren are  dressed  in  the  coarsest  and  plainest 
fashion,  far  too  coarse  and  too  plain  for  most 
city  people  to  think  proper.  I  work  my  own 
garden ;  I  sail  my  own  boat ;  I  rake  my  own 
oysters;  all  of  which  work  many  men  I  know 
would  consider  beneath  them.  They  have  no 
more  taste  for  such  work  than  for  the  class  of 
books  with  which  I  occupy  my  evenings.  My 
house  is  plain,  and  the  living  plainer.  I  in- 
finitely prefer  that  the  dinner  shall  be  of  one 


20  Living  on  Next  to 

course,  and  the  talk  of  music,  books,  and  art, 
than  that  there  should  be  ten  courses,  together 
with  inane  twaddle.  I  once  knew  a  family  in 
which  there  were  many  children,  where  the 
cardinal  rule  at  meals  was  that  nothing  must  be 
said  about  the  food  upon  the  table,  about  the 
petty  concerns  of  the  house  and  garden,  or  of 
the  people  in  the  neighborhood.  So  far  as 
possible  the  conversation  was  to  be  directed  to 
some  book  in  hand  at  the  time,  or  some  matter 
of  public  interest  of  the  day.  If  the  children 
were  too  young  to  take  part  in  such  talk,  they 
were  to  say  nothing.  Of  course  there  is  a 
ridiculous  side  to  any  such  scheme,  and  reminis- 
cences of  Doctor  Blimber,  with  his  maddening 
"The  Romans,  Mr.  Feeder,"  will  occur  to 
most  people.  Nevertheless,  there  are  good 
points  about  such  a  practice,  even  if  it  now 
and  then  leads  to  absurdity.  If  we  adults  are 
talking  of  woman  suffrage,  when  Arthur,  aged 
six  years,  interrupts  with  the  remark  that  his 
goat  swallowed  a  tennis-ball  that  morning,  the 
conversation  may  not  be  so  consecutive  as  it 
might  be ;  nevertheless,  it  is  far  better  to  have 
woman  suffrage  up  for  debate  than  the  quality 


Nothing  a  Year  21 

of  the  corned-beef  or  the  potatoes,  or  the  cut  of 
Mrs.  's  new  dress.  I  have  found  by  ex- 
perience that  systematic  effort  is  essential  in 
order  to  begin  any  such  reform  as  this.  As  I 
shall  have  occasion  to  say  elsewhere,  without 
some  effort,  the  evening,  after  a  long  day  out- 
doors in  the  wind  and  on  the  water  or  in  the 
woods,  will  prove  a  drowsy  and  unprofitable 
one.  A  few  weeks'  earnest  determination  not 
to  let  one  evening  pass  without  the  reading 
aloud  of  some  magazine  article,  or  of  a  certain 
number  of  pages  of  some  book  worth  reading, 
will  result  in  permanent  enjoyment;  the  sense 
of  exertion  will  disappear.  There  is  a  good 
deal  to  be  said  in  favor  of  the  life  of  routine  in 
which  every  hour  is  laid  out. 

To  return  to  the  tables  of  expense  again, 
some  people  might  think  that  our  bill  of  fare 
for  breakfast,  lunch,  and  dinner  meant  semi- 
starvation.  We  have  been  educated  to  like 
oatmeal,  for  instance,  and  breakfast  seldom 
varies  from  oatmeal,  bread  and  butter,  coffee, 
and  eggs.  For  lunch  there  is  sometimes  fish 
or  oysters,  or  fruit,  or  a  bit  of  cold  meat.  And 
for  dinner  we  have  fish  or  meat,  plenty  of 


22  Living  on  Next  to 

vegetables,  and,  almost  invariably,  fruit  or  the 
simplest  kind  of  pudding.  I  know  that  such 
a  bill  of  fare  would  not  please  many  people. 
It  is  low  living,  at  all  events,  if  not  high  think- 
ing. Probably  books  and  magazines  cost  us  as 
much  as  our  dinners  throughout  the  summer. 
Nevertheless,  I  have  made  out  this  little  table, 
compiled  from  the  expense  accounts  kept  with 
scrupulous  care  for  the  eight  months  beginning 
with  the  first  of  May  and  ending  with  the  first 
of  January : 

Rent  (for  the  whole  year) $160  oo 

Wages    .........  100  oo 

Grocer's  and  butcher's  bill       .         .         .         .  128  oo 

Expenses    upon    garden,    boat,    house,    including 

tools,  paint,  repairs,  seeds,  etc.         .         .         .  35  oo 

Coal  and  wood        .         .         .         .         .         .         .  25  oo 


Total $448  oo 

This  shows  a  total  of  $448,  or  an  average  of 
per  month.  To  offset  this  sum,  I  have 
only  to  show,  as  coming  from  the  place,  the  in- 
significant sum  of  $43,  made  up  by  sending 
surplus  eggs  to  the  grocer's,  and  giving  what 
vegetables  and  hay  I  did  not  need  to  a  neigh- 
bor. There  is  also  a  small  sum  to  be  credited 


Nothing  a  Year  23 

to  my  bees.  Taking  the  expenses  of  the  sum- 
mer, therefore,  and  counting  the  summer  at 
eight  months  of  the  year,  and  leaving  out  the 
money  which  went  for  clothes,  books,  etc.,  and 
small  extras,  we  have  an  outgo  of  $50  a  month. 
To  me  the  life  is  delightful.  Having  $50  a 
month  from  sources  outside,  there  is  no  anxiety. 
I  am  not  at  all  sure  that  even  were  my  $50  a 
month  income  suddenly  cut  off  I  should  not 
attempt  to  make  that  amount  by  doubling  or 
quadrupling  the  size  of  my  garden  and  going 
into  raising  small  fruits,  chickens  for  market, 
etc.,  perhaps  living  a  little  more  simply  than 
we  do  now,  simple  as  this  life  is. 

Here  I  can  see  that  my  sympathetic  reader, 
the  man  or  woman  tired  of  paying  out  to  the 
landlord,  the  butcher,  and  the  grocer  every 
penny  that  comes  in,  tired  of  seeing  the  chil- 
dren weak  and  puny,  and  anxious  for  a  more 
wholesome  life  than  the  city  affords,  is  still  dis- 
satisfied. "Where,"  he  exclaims,  "even  if  I 
have  enough  capital  to  realize  an  income  of 
$600  a  year  necessary  for  this  country  life,  am 
I  to  get  amusement?  I  must  go  to  the  city  for 
a  few  months  in  winter  in  order  to  hear  a  little 


24  Living  on  Next  to 

music,  to  see  a  few  good  plays,  to  see  the 
world,  to  hear  the  buzz  of  life;  my  children 
must  go  to  school ;  they  cannot  grow  up  fisher- 
men or  market-gardeners."  This  is  a  serious 
part  of  the  problem  and  cannot  be  ignored.  In 
my  own  case  it  happens  that  I  can  go  to  the 
city  for  a  few  months  in  the  depth  of  winter 
and  make  enough  money  to  pay  my  way  during 
those  months,  going  back  to  my  country  life 
when  the  spring  opens.  Nevertheless,  after  a 
fair  trial  of  several  years  of  this  kind  of  life, 
much  country,  and  little  city,  had  I  to  choose 
to-morrow  between  giving  up  one  or  the  other 
entirely,  between  devoting  myself  wholly  to 
making  every  penny  out  of  my  garden  and  my 
poultry-yard,  never  going  to  New  York  at  all, 
except  for  a  day  or  two  once  or  twice  a  year, 
or  beginning  again  the  city  life  of  incessant 
work,  of  anxiety,  of  late  hours,  and  bad  air, 
with  its  compensations  in  the  way  of  more 
money,  better  clothes,  amusements — between 
these  two  lives  I  should  not  hesitate  for  a  mo- 
ment. The  country  life,  as  I  make  my  life, 
gives  me  out-door  work,  which  is  now  a  physi- 
cal necessity,  gives  me  more  light  and  air,  gives 


Nothing  a  Year  25 

me  my  long  evenings  before  a  wood  fire,  and 
entire  freedom  from  worry  or  business  anxiety. 
My  friends  may  say,  and  do  say,  that  with- 
out my  few  weeks  or  months  in  the  city  there 
would  occur  inevitably  a  rapid  deterioration, 
mentally.  They  are  kind  enough  to  hint  that 
at  present  I  am  better  than  I  might  be.  At  all 
events,  they  say,  if  I  do  not  lose  all  interest 
in  the  higher  things  of  life,  gradually  being 
absorbed  in  the  details  of  vegetable  -  rais- 
ing, poultry-keeping,  oyster-raking,  and  duck- 
shooting,  my  children  will  suffer  and  sink  to 
the  level  of  the  country  people  around  them. 
This  is  a  serious  matter.  It  would  be  a  matter 
of  sincere  sorrow  to  me  if  my  boys  and  girls 
grew  up  without  the  tastes  of  educated  men 
and  women.  But  I  do  not  believe  that  any- 
thing of  the  kind  will  occur.  I  do  not  believe, 
as  I  have  already  said  elsewhere,  that  a  boy  or 
girl  brought  up  among  people  who  read  and 
talk  about  things  beyond  the  village  world  will 
fail  to  absorb  something  of  the  spirit  of  their 
elders.  After  all,  are  the  people  of  the  town, 
taking  the  average  merchant  and  shopkeeper, 
so  much  superior  to  the  people  of  the  country. 


26  Living  on  Next  to 

taking  the  average  fisherman  or  farmer  as  a 
type?  I  very  much  doubt  whether  they  are 
any  happier  because  they  spend  ten  times  as 
much  money.  Certainly  they  are  not  half  so 
healthy,  and  they  die  earlier.  It  did  not  need 
Matthew  Arnold  to  convince  many  of  us  that 
American  life  is  often  sadly  uninteresting, 
commonplace,  even  inane.  We  all  know  how 
sadly  vapid  is  the  talk  of  ninety-nine  people 
out  of  a  hundred  we  meet.  Most  of  us  can 
count  upon  our  fingers  the  men  and  women  we 
know  whose  talk  is  worth  listening  to.  I  am 
not  sure  that  the  effect  of  city  life  as  seen  in 
our  large  cities  is  anything  to  be  proud  of.  In 
the  old  days,  before  railroads  and  post-offices 
and  cheap  newspapers  and  books,  country  life 
meant  intellectual  isolation.  To-day  it  means 
nothing  of  the  kind;  no  matter  how  far  you 
are  from  the  centres  of  civilization  the  mails 
bring  you  all  the  thought  of  the  great  world 
worth  recording.  The  conditions  have  changed. 
People  talk  of  the  inspiration  of  the  crowd, 
the  electrical  influence  of  great  numbers,  the 
brilliant  minds  reflecting  light  upon  the  dull 
ones.  I  confess  that  I  can  see  but  little  of  this 


Nothing  a  Year  27 

in  our  American  cities.  The  danger  is  rather 
that  the  individual  will  be  colored  by  his 
surroundings  and  reduced  to  that  level.  Our 
great  public  schools  tend  to  turn  out  boys  and 
girls  all  knowing  the  same  things,  all  thinking 
the  same  way,  all  intellectually  fashioned  upon 
the  same  model,  and  that  a  poor  one.  Unless 
I  am  able  to  provide  for  my  boys  and  girls 
teachers  of  exceptional  merit,  I  should  rather 
trust  to  home  influence  and  the  district  school 
of  the  country  village  than  to  the  great  public 
schools  of  large  cities,  always  with  the  idea 
that  the  boy  would  find  it  possible  to  work  his 
way  through  college  some  day,  and  that  the 
girl  would  not  grow  up  without  some  idea  of 
literature  and  music.  The  question  with  me  is 
not  whether  the  influence  of  the  crowds  of 
cities  is  for  good,  but  whether  it  is  not  for  evil. 


THE   SORT   OF   LIFE   WE   LEAD 

PERHAPS  I  cannot  do  better,  in  order  to 
tell  the  sort  of  life  that  I  have  found 
possible  and  profitable  upon  an  income  of  less 
than  $50  a  month,  than  to  take  from  my  diary 
the  following  record  of  a  week.  I  will  say 
nothing  of  Sunday,  as  that  day  is  always  given 
up  by  us  to  church-going,  walking,  and  some- 
times, in  hot  weather,  to  sailing  and  bathing, 
in  the  morning  at  least. 

Monday,  Sept. — Pouring  in  torrents;  took  up  a 
bushel  of  beets  and  a  bushel  of  carrots  and  put  by 
for  winter  use  in  the  cellar.  After  breakfast  went 
off  in  a  drizzle  of  rain  sailing  with  the  children  to 
Duck  Island  for  a  load  of  salt  grass  wherewith  to 
cover  the  strawberry  bed  next  December.  Got 
enough  in  an  hour,  the  children  helping,  to  load 
up.  The  rain  in  the  meantime  cleared  off,  the 
wind  coming  from  the  southwest  and  cooler; 
wheeled  up  the  meadow  grass  from  the  boat  and 
28 


The  Sort  of  Life  We  Lead      29 

stacked  it  up  near  the  strawberry  bed  ready  for  use 
by  the  time  the  ground  is  well  frozen.  Wrote  after 
luncheon  from  one  to  three  o'clock.  Started  out 
at  three  for  the  woods  with  the  children,  and  went 
two  miles  to  chop  down  some  pines  that  we  can 
have  for  almost  nothing  for  firewood.  Cut  up 
enough  to  make  a  quarter  of  a  cord,  I  should 
think,  and  got  back  at  sundown  with  enough  twigs 
to  make  kindling  for  a  week.  When  my  neighbor 
B.  gets  ready  next  month  to  haul  our  wood-pile 
home,  he  will  find  that  my  axe  has  been  kept  sharp. 
The  day  ended  with  a  splendid  break  of  sunshine, 
the  pink  of  the  whole  west  presaging  the  coming 
autumn.  Every  blow  of  the  axe  seems  to  bring  up 
pictures  of  what  glorious  good  fires  these  pine  logs 
will  make  for  us.  On  the  way  home  stopped  for 
the  mail,  a  bundle  of  books  coming  from  the 
library.  After  dinner  read  some  sketches  of 
Henry  James,  published  in  the  old  Galaxy  years 
ago,  which  E.  sends  us  as  worth  reading.  They 
have  all  James"  present  subtlety  with  the  pictur- 
esque quality  that  he  appears  to  have  lost  in  some 
degree,  judging  from  his  recent  French  studies. 

Tuesday. — Hard  work  in  the  garden  before 
breakfast  and  until  ten  o'clock.  Hoed  up  all  the 
bean  plants  and  planted  late  carrots;  doubtful  if 


30      The  Sort  of  Life  We  Lead 

they  come  to  much  so  late,  but  worth  trying.  Had 
to  branch  up  some  of  the  tomato  vines,  which  were 
too  heavy  for  the  twigs  already  under  them.  Yes- 
terday's rain  seems  to  have  given  a  new  start  to  the 
whole  garden,  which  last  week  seemed  to  be  taking 
a  rest  after  the  summer's  exertions,  and  ready  to 
give  up  the  battle  for  the  year.  The  late  beans, 
carrots,  turnips,  lettuce,  tomatoes  looking  superb. 
Wrote  from  ten  to  twelve,  intending  to  go  oystering 
in  the  afternoon  with  the  children.  After  lunch  it 
was  blowing  great  guns  on  the  bay,  the  white  caps 
in  every  direction.  Only  half-a-dozen  boats  out, 
and  those  triple-reefed;  too  rough  for  pleasant 
oystering,  and  so  started  off  again  for  the  woods, 
baby  and  all,  the  baby  going  along  in  his  carriage. 
Went  in  for  tree-cutting  as  if  life  depended  upon  it. 
Took  a  new  road  across  country  coming  back,  and 
got  lost,  but  found  a  deserted  orchard  and  filled 
the  baby-carriage  with  enough  stolen  apples  to  last 
a  week.  No  letters  in  the  mail,  no  books,  nothing. 
Finished  up  the  Galaxy  sketches  of  James,  and 
voted  them  well  worth  the  time  spent  upon  them. 

Wednesday. — A  touch  of  frost  in  the  air,  although 
September  is  not  half  over.  After  breakfast,  filled 
up  some  gaps  in  my  new  strawberry  bed  with  run- 
ners from  the  old  one.  Dug  four  post-holes  in 


The  Sort  of  Life  We  Lead      3 1 

order  to  get  good  stout  support  for  the  wire  fence 
which  must  go  around  the  whole  garden  next  year. 
Went  oystering  after  lunch  with  A.  and  L.  and  the 
children.  Delightful  on  the  water,  although  to- 
wards the  ocean  everything  seems  to  be  as  deserted 
by  the  crowd  as  if  it  were  midwinter.  Brought 
back  a  bushel  of  oysters  in  defiance  of  the  law, 
which  is  not  yet  up.  Opened  some  of  them  before 
dinner,  and  packed  the  rest  in  the  cellar.  For 
dinner  we  had  the  sixth  unfortunate  chicken  of  our 
devoted  little  band.  Cold  enough  for  a  fire;  we 
had  the  first  blaze  of  the  autumn,  the  great  bunches 
of  ferns  and  moss-covered  twigs  which  have  filled 
the  fireplace  all  summer  going  first  with  a  crackling 
roar.  Read  the  last  of  Kennan's  articles  on  Siberia 
from  the  Century  and  some  of  the  "open  letters." 
Pretty  well  tired  out;  between  the  effects  of  the 
fire  and  the  oystering  began  to  nod  over  our  books 
by  the  time  the  clock  struck  ten. 

Thursday. — Went  over  more  than  half  of  the 
garden  between  breakfast  and  ten  o'clock,  giving 
the  last  hoeing  that  will  be  needed  this  year.  Not- 
withstanding Monday's  rain,  the  weeds  already 
show  a  disposition  to  stay  in  the  ground,  and  it 
is  evident  that  all  vegetation  has  lost  heart.  Got 
through  the  task  at  ten  o'clock,  and  as  weeding  is 


32      The  Sort  of  Life  We  Lead 

what  I  like  least  about  gardening,  there  is  much 
comfort  in  finding  that  there  is  such  a  thing  as  get- 
ting ahead  of  the  weeds  if  you  keep  up  the  battle 
persistently  enough.  Wrote  from  ten  to  lunch 
time.  After  luncheon  went  with  A.  and  the  chil- 
dren over  to  the  beach,  sailing  our  three  miles  across 
the  bay  with  a  free  wind  in  less  than  half  an  hour. 
One  would  scarcely  believe  that  in  three  weeks  so 
great  a  change  had  taken  place.  Three  weeks  ago 
the  beach  was  alive  with  people,  the  bay  was  full 
of  boats,  sailing  back  and  forth,  the  little  bathing 
station  on  the  beach  had  plenty  to  do,  there  were 
dozens  of  people  in  the  surf,  and  scores  walking 
along  the  sands.  To-day  we  were  one  of  half-a- 
dozen  sails  to  be  found  as  far  as  the  eye  could 
reach.  On  the  beach  there  was  complete  silence, 
except  for  the  boom  of  the  surf  and  the  pipe  of  an 
occasional  quail.  Tradition  says  that  the  quail 
along  this  narrow  line  of  sand,  which  stretches 
from  Fire  Island  to  Quogue,  came  ashore  from  an 
English  vessel  wrecked  off  Moriches  many  years 
ago.  They  Were  intended  for  some  rich  man's 
estate,  but  escaped  here  and  have  done  well. 
The  season  is  so  nearly  through,  so  far  as  bathing 
is  concerned,  that  we  gathered  up  our  bathing 
suits,  camp-chairs,  and  beach-shades,  and  put  them 


The  Sort  of  Life  We  Lead      33 

aboard  the  Nelly  for  home.  The  sail  home  against 
a  brisk,  steady  northwest  breeze  was  one  of  the 
most  delightful  we  have  had  this  summer,  the  nose 
of  the  boat  plowing  the  water  half  the  way  back, 
and  the  main-sail  wet  half  up  the  mast.  As  is  so 
often  the  way  on  the  Great  South  Bay,  the  wind 
died  out  at  sundown,  and  as  we  carried  our  beach 
traps  up  to  the  house  the  whole  west  was  aflame, 
the  air  cooler,  but  the  wind  gone.  The  last  of  the 
hotel  and  boarding-house  people  seem  to  be  going, 
so  that  we  shall  soon  have  the  bay  to  ourselves. 
One  storm  in  early  September  seems  to  scare  the 
whole  crowd  off.  Had  another  fire  after  dinner, 
and  read  the  last  instalment  of  Howells'  novel  in 
Harper's. 

Friday. — Opened  a  lot  of  oysters  before  break- 
fast and  dug  the  other  post-holes  before  lunch, 
making  a  long  morning's  work,  as  I  have  no  digging 
apparatus  fit  for  the  job.  Let  the  chickens  out  for 
a  tramp  over  the  garden,  keeping  the  children  to 
see  that  they  did  not  get  into  the  tomato  vines. 
The  children  picked  all  the  tomatoes  for  the  yearly 
canning — more  than  three  bushels.  Wrote  after 
lunch  until  three  o'clock,  and  started  out  with  the 
whole  family  to  go  down  along  the  shore  about  a 
mile  from  here,  where  there  are  some  branches  of 


34      The  Sort  of  Life  We  Lead 

dead  pine  overgrown  with  silvery  moss;  took  a  saw 
along  and  brought  home  a  lot  with  which  to  deco- 
rate ;  picked  up  some  wonderful  grasses  of  a  kind 
unknown  to  me,  which  we  found  growing  to  a 
height  of  seven  feet  in  a  sort  of  half  swamp,  half 
bog.  Growing  dark  early,  but  not  cold  enough  for 
our  fire.  Looked  up  and  read  some  chapters  on 
wild  grasses,  and  wrote  some  private  letters.  S. 
gave  us  some  reminiscences  of  Die  Meistersinger 
on  the  piano,  and  A.  sang  some  Schubert  songs. 

The  talk  this  evening  ran  upon  the  future  of 
music  in  New  York,  and,  while  in  J.  we  had  a  de- 
voted believer  in  the  grandeur  and  importance  of 
our  musical  future,  S.  was  entirely  sceptical,  and 
believed  that  whether  or  not  the  Wagner  wave  had 
a  more  solid  foundation  than  passing  fashion,  the 
real  love  of  music  was  not  deep  enough  to  encour- 
age the  hope  of  a  permanent  opera,  such  as  exists 
in  Vienna,  Berlin,  Munich,  and  half-a-dozen  other 
German  cities.  The  idea  that  the  love  of  Wagner's 
music  is,  so  to  speak,  fictitious,  and  the  professions 
of  the  Wagner  enthusiasts  merely  due  to  the  ex- 
traneous influence  of  the  moment,  I  hear  a  good 
deal  about,  but  can  never  take  quite  seriously. 
One  of  my  friends  insists  that  the  more  violent  the 
craze  for  Wagnerism,  the  sooner  it  will  be  over,  and 


The  Sort  of  Life  We  Lead      35 

that  the  very  persons  who  are  now  decrying  every- 
thing but  Wagner  will  soon  be  hailing  the  advent 
of  some  new  light  more  abstruse  and  bizarre  than 
the  Bayreuth  master — perhaps  Ching-Chang,  with 
his  orchestra  playing  in  half-a-dozen  keys  at  once. 
I  know  that  this  is  a  common  impression  among 
unmusical  people.  But  I  see  around  me  so  many 
persons  who  are  perfectly  sincere  in  the  pre-eminent 
position  which  they  gave  to  this  music  of  the  future, 
so-called  for  many  years,  and  now  so  much  the 
music  of  the  present,  that  I  have  long  ceased  to 
have  any  misgivings  about  the  matter.  The  time 
was  when,  with  the  neophyte's  ardor,  I  was  ready 
to  ascribe  all  opposition  to  Wagner  either  to  igno- 
rance or  dishonesty.  Since  then,  I  have  met  per- 
sons who  know  something  of  music,  and  yet  prefer 
Mozart,  Beethoven,  or  Brahms  to  Wagner,  and  of 
their  honesty  I  am  as  well  convinced  as  of  their 
knowledge  and  good  taste.  Nevertheless  such  per- 
sons are  very  few,  and  whereas  among  musically 
educated  men  and  women  the  preference  for  Wag- 
ner's music  above  all  other  is  overwhelming,  the 
chief  opposition  is  really  due  to  simple  ignorance. 
As  for  argument  upon  the  question,  it  is  very  much 
like  arguing  as  to  religion;  we  have  no  scientific 
data  to  start  from.  I  may  insist  that  the  Meister- 


36      The  Sort  of  Life  We  Lead 

singer  prize-song  is  better  music  than  Silver  Threads 
among  the  Gold,  but  beyond  quoting  expert  opinions 
in  favor  of  my  opinion,  what  is  there  to  say  ? 
Musical  judgment  must  be  more  or  less  empirical. 
In  painting,  in  sculpture,  in  literature,  there  are 
fixed  standards;  in  music,  none.  The  music  which 
to-day  the  cultivated  world  considers  admirable  in 
every  respect  was  condemned  a  generation  ago  by 
experts  as  meaningless,  chaotic,  and  unworthy  of 
serious  attention.  The  future  of  music  in  New 
York  interests  us  here  in  the  wilderness  to  the  ex- 
tent that  it  is  the  chief  magnet  in  drawing  us  to  the 
city  when  the  snow  begins  to  fly  in  earnest.  Were 
it  not  for  the  German  performances  at  our  opera- 
house,  I  doubt  whether  we  should  consider  it  worth 
our  while  to  pack  our  trunks  and  suffer  the  ills  of  a 
city  boarding-house  for  even  a  fortnight. 

For  my  own  part,  I  look  forward  to  the  day  when 
the  phonograph  will  come  to  our  rescue.  Although 
this  little  instrument  is  yet  in  its  infancy,  I  do  not 
see  how  any  one  who  has  examined  it  at  all  can 
doubt  its  future  importance.  It  may  be  a  year  from 
now,  or  ten  years  from  now,  but  that  some  day  the 
phonograph  will  be  the  reader,  singer,  and  player 
for  the  family,  is  to  me  beyond  doubt.  I  have 
heard  results  so  marvellous  from  the  instrument 


The  Sort  of  Life  We  Lead      37 

even  in  its  present  crude  shape,  that  when  scores 
of  inventors  have  had  time  to  work  at  it,  its  per- 
formances will  be  nothing  short  of  miraculous.  In 
music,  especially,  it  seems  always  to  have  excelled. 
The  first  of  the  Edison  phonographs,  which  were 
admittedly  toys,  so  far  as  talking  is  concerned,  re- 
produced singing,  violin  playing,  whistling,  with 
extraordinary  fidelity.  The  later  instrument  of  to- 
day gives  out  a  piano  piece  so  that  not  only  all  the 
notes  are  heard  as  if  the  piano  was  in  the  next 
room,  but  even  the  overtones  and  the  after-vibra- 
tions of  the  strings  are  distinct.  Inasmuch  as  it 
will  cost  scarcely  anything  to  make  duplicates  of 
the  wax  cylinders  bearing  upon  them  music,  it  will 
pay  to  take  great  pains  and  go  to  heavy  expense  in 
order  to  obtain  an  original  cylinder  which  gives  re- 
sults as  perfect  as  possible.  Rubinstein  may  well 
devote  himself  to  playing  into  huge  sounding  fun- 
nels, if  he  knows  that  duplicates  of  the  little  wax 
cylinder  at  the  other  end  of  the  funnel  are  to  be 
distributed  all  over  the  civilized  world,  and  that 
millions  of  people  now,  and  perhaps  a  thousand 
years  from  now,  will  listen  to  an  echo  of  his  work. 
This  feature  of  the  certain  and  almost  costless  re- 
production of  these  cylinders  will  cause  the  search 
for  a  sound-magnifier  to  begin  again  in  earnest. 


38      The  Sort  of  Life  We  Lead 

Some  years  ago  Mr.  Edison  exhibited  an  apparatus 
whereby  the  noise  made  by  a  fly  walking  across  a 
sheet  of  paper  was  made  to  sound  like  the  tramp  of 
a  horse  across  the  stable  floor.  Is  it  too  great  a 
stretch  of  the  imagination  to  predict  that  some 
similar  means  of  magnifying  sound  will  be  applied 
to  the  echo  of  the  phonograph  ? 

Some  day  we  may  have  our  operas  and  our  con- 
certs at  home. 

Saturday. — Delightfully  cold  again;  and  off  to 
the  woods  with  the  children  right  after  breakfast, 
there  being  no  school.  Worked  hard  at  the  pines, 
while  the  young  ones  picked  up  twigs  and  chopped 
for  the  kindling  pile ;  took  our  luncheon  along,  and 
ate  it  with  the  music  of  the  countless  quail  calling 
for  Bob  White  from  all  directions;  the  breeze  was 
from  inland,  but  full  of  life,  and  laden  with  incense 
from  the  miles  of  pine  between  here  and  Long 
Island  Sound.  On  our  way  home  met  S.  with  a 
fine  deer,  which,  to  my  amazement,  he  told  us  had 
been  shot  not  ten  miles  from  us.  The  idea  of  wild 
deer  on  Long  Island  would  surprise  a  good  many 
New  Yorkers.  At  the  store,  where  we  stopped  for 
the  mail,  there  are  reports  of  ducks  in  plenty.  A 
man  with  a  good  gun  ought  not  to  starve  around 
here.  Two  of  the  children  fell  asleep  at  dinner, 


The  Sort  of  Life  We  Lead      39 

and,  after  a  little  music,  we  decided  to  go  to  bed, 
omitting  the  usual  literary  exercises,  and  rejecting 
A.'s  proposition  to  read  a  chapter  on  mental  lazi- 
ness. The  dinner  enlivened  by  a  heated  discussion 
over  the  "good  gray  poet,"  now  reported  to  be  very 
low  in  health. 

I  do  not  know  whether  this  little  extract 
from  my  diary  gives  a  picture  which  impresses 
the  casual  reader  as  pleasant  or  the  reverse. 
Not  once  during  such  a  week  had  I  to  discuss 
unpleasant  matters,  or  distressingly  common- 
place matters  with  unpleasant  or  common- 
place people.  I  had  earned  enough  money  by 
writing  to  more  than  pay  the  modest  cost  of 
this  life.  Everything  but  the  groceries  and 
the  little  meat  required  we  had  supplied  our- 
selves— the  vegetables,  the  eggs,  the  chickens, 
the  oysters,  the  crabs,  the  honey,  and  the 
apples — the  last  stolen.  No  doubt  chopping 
down  wood,  although  an  occupation  much 
affected  by  a  famous  Englishman — perhaps  the 
most  famous  Englishman — of  this  age,  might 
appeal  to  some  of  us,  owing  to  the  idiotic 
Anglomania  of  the  day,  but  it  is  not  the  sort 


40      The  Sort  of  Life  We  Lead 

of  sport  that  the  average  city  man  yearns  for. 
The  utilitarian  part  of  it — a  very  important  part 
of  it  to  me,  and  in  fact  I  view  all  my  sports 
from  a  utilitarian  point  of  view  —  certainly 
would  not  impress  the  city  man  who  rushes 
out  of  town  for  two  weeks  of  the  year  in  order 
to  get  what  he  calls  recreation.  Wood  means 
good  fires  to  us,  and  good  big  fires  are  essential 
in  our  country  home.  I  should  say  that  we 
burn  a  cord  of  wood  in  a  fortnight,  although 
the  big  fire  is  not  going  all  day;  in  cold 
weather  a  small  self-feeding  stove  hidden  by  a 
screen  keeps  the  living-room  comfortable.  I 
suppose  I  might  say  the  same  thing  in  regard 
to  oystering.  The  poet's  friend  who  found 
nothing  in  the  primrose  would  certainly  not 
enjoy  oystering.  For  my  part,  oystering  is 
one  of  the  pleasures  of  the  year.  It  is  one  of 
my  sports  that  I  rank  highest.  I  sail  my  own 
boat  over  to  a  part  of  the  bay  which  abounds 
in  oysters,  and,  allowing  the  sheet  to  run  out, 
I  can  "tong  away"  on  deck,  throwing  the 
oysters  in  their  queer  growths  to  the  children, 
who  throw  away  the  shell  and  refuse,  cutting 
the  oysters  apart,  as  they  grow  mainly  in 


The  Sort  of  Life  We  Lead      41 

bunches,  and  piling  them  up  in  the  basket, 
which  we  carry  home.  Take  an  afternoon  in 
October,  with  a  good  breeze  blowing,  not 
enough  to  make  the  water  very  rough,  and, 
with  my  young  ones  as  company,  I  can  get 
as  much  real  pleasure  and  certainly  as  much 
healthy  exercise  from  oystering  in  the  Great 
South  Bay  as  from  any  sport  I  know  of. 
Then  there  is  the  money  value  of  the  oysters 
to  be  thought  of.  If  I  could  not  get  a  bushel 
of  oysters  in  an  afternoon,  I  should  have  to 
buy  meat. 

I  have  tried  by  practical  lessons  to  convince 
several  city  friends  that  there  is  a  joy  about 
scraping  the  bottom  of  the  sea  for  oysters  be- 
yond anything  that  they  could  have  imagined. 
I  induced  a  critical  friend  of  mine  to  take  off 
his  coat  one  fine  afternoon  and  work  the 
"tongs."  The  water  was  pretty  rough,  and 
he  had  to  jump  about  a  good  deal  on  deck  in 
order  to  keep  his  footing.  I  should  say  that 
in  the  half-hour  he  played  at  oystering,  he 
brought  up  thirty  or  forty  oysters.  At  the 
end  of  that  time  he  said  that  he  would  rather 
write  a  two-column  article  than  rake  a  bushel 


42      The  Sort  of  Life  We  Lead 

of  oysters,  and  he  smoked  cigars  and  threw 
shells  into  the  water  for  the  rest  of  the  after- 
noon. When  I  met  him  a  month  later  in  the 
dusty,  miserable  city  of  New  York,  he  said  that 
he  attributed  queer  pains  in  his  back  to  that 
oystering  experience.  Some  men  are  blind  to 
the  opportunities  of  this  life. 


WHAT   MY   CRITICS   WILL   SAY 

IT  is  fortunate,"  said  one  of  my  friends  to 
whom  I  described  my  way  of  living, 
"that  all  people  do  not  think  as  you  do,  or  the 
world  would  stand  still.  If  we  were  all  to  shun 
the  city,  to  go  off  hunting  or  oystering  every 
day,  contenting  ourselves  with  the  unambitious 
life  you  lead,  there  would  be  certain  deteriora- 
tion. Where  would  be  our  inventors,  our 
great  scholars,  who  devote  their  lives  to  inces- 
sant work,  and  our  merchant  princes,  who  never 
miss  a  day  in  their  counting-rooms,  the  men 
who  plan  vast  operations  and  make  the  country 
rich  and  prosperous?"  Of  course  this  is  the 
common  argument  against  any  such  scheme  as 
mine,  and  if  a  man  enjoys  the  management  of 
vast  commercial  operations,  if  he  likes  to  tele- 
graph here  and  there  to  buy  tons  of  lard  at  a 
low  price  and  telegraph  elsewhere  to  sell  them 
at  a  high  price,  I  am  only  too  delighted  to  have 
43 


44       What  My  Critics  will  Say 

him  do  so  and  perhaps  thereby  enable  me  to 
buy  my  lard  a  little  cheaper  at  our  country 
store.  By  sitting  in  his  counting-room  three 
hundred  days  out  of  the  year,  and  eight  hours 
of  the  day,  he  gives  me  my  lard  a  little  cheaper, 
and  he  finds  pleasure  in  it.  The  operation 
gives  him  a  big  stone  house  to  live  in,  a  car- 
riage which  his  wife  rides  in,  for  he  never  finds 
any  time,  an  opera  box  which  his  wife  and 
daughters  may  enjoy,  for  he  has  no  knowledge 
of  music ;  he  has  never  had  any  time  to  learn 
anything  beyond  the  quotations  of  lard  in  the 
different  parts  of  the  world.  If  these  noble 
men  devoted  to  lard  and  other  commercial 
operations, — if  they  like  it,  I  am  only  too 
delighted.  If  I  thought  they  were  breaking 
themselves  down,  losing  year  after  year  of 
oystering  and  wood-cutting  in  order  to  give 
me  my  lard  one  eighth  of  a  cent  a  pound 
cheaper  than  I  should  otherwise  have  it,  it 
would  cast  a  shadow  over  my  sports;  I  should 
hate  to  think  that  I  was  reaping  while  they 
were  laboring. 

Seriously,  does  any  one  contend  that  the  life 
of  to-day  is  any  happier,  any  more  rational, 


What  My  Critics  will  Say       45 

any  more  healthy,  than  the  life  in  the  Ameri- 
can colonies  one  hundred  years  ago?  So  far  as 
material  prosperity  goes,  it  seems  that  there 
was  far  less  poverty  then  than  now  in  the  ne- 
cessaries of  life;  the  farmhouses  were  filled  to 
overflowing  with  good  things  to  eat  and  drink. 
There  were  few  books,  and  if  some  inventors 
and  workers  had  not  given  up  country  life  long 
enough  to  invent  power-presses  we  might  not 
have  newspapers  and  books  so  cheap  as  they 
are  to-day.  But  I  doubt  if  any  one  thinks  of 
colonial  life  in  this  country  as  less  worth  living 
than  our  life  of  to-day.  Certainly  in  New 
York  City  there  was  not,  in  proportion  to  the 
population,  one  quarter  of  the  poverty,  the 
misery,  the  vice,  that  we  know  to-day.  There 
was  not  that  fierce  struggle  for  existence  which 
blights  the  lives  of  so  many  hundreds  of  thou- 
sands of  our  fellow-creatures. 

If  the  world  persisted  in  playing  as  I  do, 
although  few  people  regard  wood-cutting  and 
grubbing  in  a  garden  as  play,  should  we  not 
have  had  any  great  inventions,  should  we  not 
have  had  any  steam-engines,  or  the  power- 
press,  or  the  telephone?  This  would  imply 


46       What  My  Critics  will  Say 

that  the  man  who  devoted  a  large  part  of  his 
life  to  such  sports  as  I  do,  wholly  unfits  him- 
self for  other  kinds  of  work — which  I  deny. 
My  own  work  which  brings  me  money  happens 
to  be  writing  articles  for  which  misguided  pub- 
lishers of  newspapers  pay  me.  I  devote  a 
certain  number  of  hours  in  the  week  to  writing, 
nor  in  my  humble  opinion,  is  it  the  easy  writ- 
ing which  is  supposed  to  make  such  hard  read- 
ing. There  is  no  reason  why  other  people  who 
choose  to  cut  loose  from  city  life,  having  found 
its  cost  greater  than  its  worth,  should  not  em- 
ploy a  certain  number  of  hours  every  day  at  the 
kind  of  work  for  which  they  happen  to  have  a 
particular  bent.  I  see  already  that  my  eldest 
boy  will  probably  turn  his  attention  to  machin- 
ery, and  perhaps  become  an  electrician.  It  is 
not  absolutely  necessary  that  he  should  remain 
in  the  machine-shop  all  his  life  in  order  to 
contribute  something  to  the  world's  stock  of 
machinery.  Some  of  the  greatest  inventions 
and  most  valuable  suggestions  have  been  made 
by  men  far  away  from  the  great  centres  of 
life. 

Again,  if  in  our  bustling  New  York  we  saw 


What  My  Critics  will  Say       47 

that  most  men  really  do  produce  valuable  work 
essential  to  the  happiness  of  mankind,  there 
might  be  some  misgiving  as  to  the  policy  of 
isolating  one's  self  from  the  crowd  and  en- 
deavoring to  get  as  much  enjoyment  upon 
comparatively  nothing  a  year  as  the  millionaire 
may  get.  Who  does  not  know  that  hundreds 
of  the  rich  men  of  New  York  City  owe  their 
wealth  to  gambling,  pure  and  simple,  the  rest 
of  the  country  furnishing  the  victims  and  the 
money?  Statistics  show,  for  instance,  that  of 
all  the  buying  and  selling  done  upon  the  New 
York  Produce  Exchange,  ninety-five  per  cent, 
represents  gambling;  five  per  cent,  represents 
actual  buying  and  selling  of  grain  and  produce. 
In  Wall  Street  it  is  still  worse.  These  dozens 
of  well-dressed  men,  the  men  who  own  the 
yachts  and  the  fast  horses  and  the  big  country 
places,  do  no  useful  work,  produce  nothing, 
and  if  their  business  could  be  wiped  out  of 
existence  to-morrow  the  world  would  be  no 
poorer.  Under  cover  of  the  little  legitimate 
trading  or  business  which  has  to  be  done  in 
stocks  or  bonds,  this  army  of  gamblers  grow 
rich  upon  the  passion  of  human  nature  to  get 


48       What  My  Critics  will  Say 

something  without  work.  Every  little  town  in 
the  country  sends  its  money  to  the  great  city 
to  be  matched  against  the  money  from  some- 
where else.  These  precious  brokers  are  the 
bankers  in  the  game.  To  pretend  that  the 
business  is  a  whit  better  than  gambling  with 
dice  and  cards  has  always  seemed  to  me  hypoc- 
risy ;  the  man  who  deals  in  lard,  honestly  buy- 
ing lard  and  selling  lard,  and  not  simply  betting 
upon  the  future  price  of  lard,  may  be  doing 
useful  work  in  getting  lard  where  it  is  plenty 
and  carrying  it  to  places  where  it  is  scarce,  and 
so  throughout  the  whole  range  of  legitimate 
mercantile  life.  The  man  who  keeps  a  retail 
shop  of  any  kind  is  of  actual  service  to  the  com- 
munity. But  the  typical  broker — what  does 
he  produce  in  the  course  of  a  year  to  pay  for 
the  large  sums  of  money  he  receives?  This  is 
an  old  topic,  and  I  have  nothing  new  to  say 
about  it.  But  when  people  point  to  me  as  an 
idler,  wasting  my  time  and  neglecting  my  op- 
portunities, and  at  the  same  time  point  to  my 
neighbor,  the  successful  broker,  as  an  example, 
I  must  decline  to  be  impressed.  At -least,  I 
give  something  in  return  for  what  the  world 


What  My  Critics  will  Say       49 

gives  me.  The  articles  I  write  may  be  poor 
enough,  but  some  people  read  them,  and  live 
to  want  to  read  more,  or  publishers  would  not 
buy  them. 

I  have  a  dear  friend  who  is  a  cotton-broker. 
He  admits  candidly  that  his  business  is  gam- 
bling, pure  and  simple,  but  he  contends  that  if 
people  want  to  gamble,  and  want  to  pay  him  a 
comfortable  income  for  registering  their  bets, 
there  is  no  reason  why  he  should  refuse.  If 
people  do  want  to  buy  actual  cotton,  he  will 
buy  cotton  for  them,  although  he  would 
scarcely  know  a  bale  of  cotton  if  he  saw  one. 
But  his  customers  want  to  gamble,  and  pay 
him  well  for  helping  them  to  do  so.  He  has 
no  taste  or  love  for  chopping  wood  or  raking 
oysters,  but  enjoys  sitting  at  a  big  desk  for 
several  hours  a  day,  receiving  checks  from  cus- 
tomers, paying  out  the  losses  and  the  gains, 
and  dropping  into  Delmonico's  in  the  middle 
of  the  day  for  luncheon  and  a  quiet  talk  about 
the  best  card  in  the  game  to  put  your  money 
on.  When  a  man's  conscience  can  allow  him 
to  do  that  sort  of  business  day  after  day,  I  do 
not  know  whether  to  be  glad  or  sorry  for  him. 

4 


50       What  My  Critics  will  Say 

Another  friend  of  mine,  also  a  broker,  to  whom 
I  said  one  evening  at  dinner,  "You  have  pro- 
duced nothing,  earned  nothing  of  value  to- 
day," replied  to  me:  "Yes,  I  have.  Here  is 
a  check  for  $200,  the  profits  of  a  turn  in  wheat ; 
it  was  done  in  half  an  hour.  I  bought  low, 
and  I  sold  high."  "And,"  I  asked,  "do  you 
not  pity  the  man  who  lost  that  $200,  for  you 
gave  no  equivalent  in  work  for  it?"  This 
seemed  to  be  so  extraordinary  a  view  of  the 
matter  that  every  one  laughed ;  no  one  seemed 
to  have  the  least  sympathy  for  the  unfortunate 
loser  in  the  game.  Do  not  these  things  show 
that  this  speculation  disease  is  blunting  the 
moral  sense  of  the  community?  My  friend  of 
whom  I  spoke  first  is  a  man  to  whose  friend- 
ship I  owe  much,  and  for  whose  character  I 
have  the  highest  esteem.  He  is  kindliness 
itself.  And  yet  point  out  to  him,  or  try  to 
point  out  to  him,  that  the  life  of  a  broker,  al- 
though admittedly  gambling,  pure  and  simple, 
is  a  vicious  one,  and  he  will  laugh  good- 
naturedly,  and  go  on  with  profound  content 
upon  his  "vicious"  course. 

To  state  briefly  my  view,  to  sum  up  the  gist 


What  My  Critics  will  Say       51 

of  what  I  have  put  into  the  foregoing  pages, 
what  I  advance  and  believe  is  that  the  hard- 
working city  man  does  not  get  his  rights  out  of 
life.  It  may  be  that  ignorance  is  bliss.  He 
may  be  swept  so  far  in  the  wrong  direction  as 
to  lose  all  proper  estimate  of  the  good  things 
of  this  life ;  his  ideas  of  relative  values  may  be 
distorted.  He  may  consider  that  fine  clothes 
and  a  big  house  make  up  for  lack  of  real  sport ; 
he  may  find  more  pleasure  in  counting  bills 
than  in  sailing  or  walking.  A  misguided  sense 
of  duty  may  keep  him  all  his  life  half-starved 
for  rational  sport;  he  may,  like  the  unfortu- 
nate person  of  whom  I  spoke  at  the  beginning 
of  this  book,  "die  in  harness"  as  a  typical 
American.  I  believe  that  there  is  an  escape 
from  the  anxiety,  the  toil,  the  wear  of  business 
in  rational  pursuits  offered  to  us  by  the  coun- 
try, and  that  we  can  abandon  the  town  without 
sacrificing  culture,  education,  and  intellectual 
life.  I  am  free  to  admit  that  I  should  not  ad- 
vise any  man  accustomed  to  living  i"n  the  tittle- 
tattle  of  the  town,  accustomed  to  "paddling  in 
social  slush,"  as  Thoreau  puts  it,  to  go  to  the 
country  carrying  nothing  with  him.  If  a  man 


52       What  My  Critics  will  Say 

has  no  resources  of  his  own,  if  he  finds  no 
pleasure  in  books  and  literature,  I  should  say 
beware  of  the  country.  Any  such  scheme  as  I 
have  outlined  would  fail ;  it  may  be  that  very 
few  men  are  so  fond  of  out-door  life  that  they 
would  consider  the  loss  of  New  York's  advan- 
tages as  of  small  account  in  comparison  with 
the  joys  of  wood-chopping  and  oyster-dredg- 
ing. In  writing  these  pages  I  have  had  no 
intention  of  tempting  away  the  clerk  from  his 
yardstick  or  his  ledger,  or  the  broker  from  his 
office.  I  have  simply  had  my  say,  knowing 
that  I  am  in  an  insignificant  minority.  I  think 
I  have  shown  that  bankruptcy  need  not  result 
from  such  a  course,  providing  there  is  a  small 
income,  so  small  that  most  men  who  reach 
middle  age  have  it  at  their  disposal.  And  in 
such  a  case  there  is  the  possibility  of  getting 
also  out  of  the  city  some  of  its  advantages,  for 
there  are  several  months  in  the  depth  of  winter 
when  there  is  nothing  to  be  done,  either  in  the 
way  of  sport  or  work,  in  the  country.  I  have 
gone  so  far  as  to  say  that  even  if  country  life 
meant  entire  isolation  from  the  city,  and  de- 
pendence for  a  living  on  the  money  which  may 


What  My  Critics  will  Say       53 

be  made  in  the  country,  even  then  there  is 
much  to  be  said  in  favor  of  such  a  move. 
Nevertheless,  money  is  not  plenty  in  the 
country,  and  if  a  man  and  his  family  are  not 
prepared  to  live  in  the  simplest  possible  fashion 
and  to  undergo  some  little  privations,  better 
by  far  stick  to  the  ills  that  they  know  of. 


HOME 

THREE  years  ago  I  made  such  changes  in 
my  business  engagements  as  to  begin  my 
series  of  experiments.  I  wished  to  find  out 
how  far  a  small  income  of  less  than  $500  a  year 
would  carry  me  towards  independence  of  the 
city,  its  troubles  and  anxieties,  its  landlords 
and  their  bills.  The  question  was  whether  or 
not  I  could  so  supplement  such  an  income  by 
manual  out-door  labor,  as  to  keep  my  family 
in  comfort  the  year  round,  and  even  provide 
for  a  few  weeks  of  city  life  in  the  dead  of  winter. 
I  resigned  my  city  position  and  took  a  small 
place  fifty  miles  from  New  York,  where  rent 
was  cheap,  the  soil  fairly  good  for  gardening, 
and  within  gunshot  of  the  water.  I  counted 
upon  my  garden,  my  chickens,  and  my  boat 
for  a  good  deal,  and  I  was  not  disappointed. 
As  in  every  village,  the  vegetables,  eggs, 
chickens,  and  fish  were  dear  when  you  had  to 

54 


Home  55 

buy  them,  partly  because  people  have  their 
own  farm  supplies,  there  being  no  regular  busi- 
ness done  in  those  things,  and  partly  because 
the  prices  which  obtain  in  July  and  August, 
when  the  summer  boarders  or  cottagers  come 
to  be  plucked,  regulate  the  prices  of  the  year. 
In  the  three  years  that  have  gone  by  since 
then,  the  difficulties  and  advantages  of  the 
scheme  have  defined  themselves.  I  can  say 
that  in  my  own  case,  at  least,  this  mode  of  life 
is  infinitely  preferable  for  a  poor  man  to  any 
other  that  I  have  discovered.  I  do  not  say 
that  if  some  great-uncle  in  India  should  leave 
me  a  fortune,  I  would  not  make  some  changes 
in  the  direction  of  greater  sport  and  less  actual 
labor,  for  there  is  labor  in  the  raising  of  cab- 
bages. And  yet  I  confess  that  my  pleasure 
over  a  fortune  from  the  skies  would  be  tem- 
pered with  the  knowledge  that  I  should  no 
longer  take  satisfaction  in  raising  cabbages  for 
the  cabbages'  sake.  I  might  go  on  working 
my  home  acre,  but  it  would  be  with  something 
of  the  discontent  with  which  I  used  to  work  a 
bedroom  gymnastic  apparatus  in  the  days  be- 
fore I  deserted  the  city.  When  I  get  through 


56  Home 

a  hard  morning's  work  of  hoeing  or  planting, 
there  is  a  decided  satisfaction  in  the  thought 
that  by  this  gymnastic  exercise  in  the  sunlight 
I  have  been  cheating  the  world  out  of  a  living. 
But  I  cannot  advise  any  one  who  does  not 
love  hard  physical  exercise  to  attempt  any  such 
experiment.  It  requires  good  muscles  and 
system,  the  latter  especially,  as  I  shall  have 
occasion  to  insist  upon  more  than  once  in 
chapters  upon  my  garden,  my  bees,  and  my 
chickens.  Without  system  there  is  as  rapid  a 
deterioration  in  a  garden  as  in  a  business  en- 
terprise. Experience  has  taught  me  that  one 
hour's  writing  every  day,  or  an  hour's  garden- 
ing, accomplished  with  clock-like  regularity, 
gives  valuable  results,  where  spasmodic  work 
ends  in  comparatively  nothing.  The  same 
rules  which  obtain  in  business  life  hold  good 
in  my  country  work.  The  notion  that  a  whole 
day's  work  in  the  garden  once  a  week  is  as 
good  as  two  hours'  every  morning,  is  all 
wrong.  I  should  say  that  two  hours'  work  in 
the  garden  once  a  day,  from  the  middle  of 
April  to  the  end  of  August,  would  result  in 
twice  the  garden  produce  that  might  be  ex- 


Home  57 

pected  from  the  same  number  of  hours'  work 
given  at  odd  moments — a  day  here  and  a  day 
there.  And  so  with  every  other  country  pur- 
suit. So  great  is  my  preference  for  out-door 
work  and  sports  over  writing  book  reviews  and 
magazine  articles,  that  at  first  I  was  constantly 
tempted  to  throw  down  my  pen  and  take  to 
any  out-door  work  in  sight,  quieting  my  con- 
science with  the  plea  that  I  would  make  up 
time  in  the  evening.  When  evening  came,  the 
distasteful  task  was  put  off  again  until  the  next 
morning.  Such  rules  as  are  necessary  to  get 
through  a  certain  amount  of  work  are  abso- 
lutely essential.  If  one  allots  the  hours  of  the 
day  to  certain  work  and  allows  no  interference 
with  the  arrangements  laid  down,  it  is  surpris- 
ing what  can  be  accomplished  on  a  little  coun- 
try place.  This  sounds  trite  enough,  and  yet 
needs  to  be  insisted  upon.  I  am  a  thorough 
believer  in  the  practice  of  a  certain  famous 
writer,  who  sits  at  his  desk,  pen  in  hand,  from 
nine  till  twelve  every  morning,  whether  ideas 
come  or  not.  He  searches  diligently,  even  if 
he  does  not  find,  and  the  brain  finally  begins 
work  without  painful  urging. 


58  Home 

The  new  life  has  turned  out  so  well  that  I 
have  cast  in  my  lot  for  good  with  Nature. 
From  the  beginning  of  April  until  Christmas  I 
find  health  and  enjoyment  away  from  New 
York.  For  three  months  in  winter  we  board 
in  the  city,  the  children  counting  the  weeks  in 
their  impatience  to  get  back  to  the  fields,  even 
snow-covered  fields.  Had  I  now  to  choose 
between  giving  up  the  city  altogether  and  re- 
turning to  the  old  life  of  desk-work  the  year 
round,  I  should  accept  the  out-door  existence 
without  a  moment's  hesitation,  both  for  my- 
self and  my  children.  It  was  found  that  to 
build  a  house  such  as  we  required  was  better 
than  continuing  to  pay  rent,  and  for  a  year 
preparations  were  made  for  this  country  home 
which  should  satisfy  our  aesthetic  tastes  and  at 
the  same  time  cost  but  little  money. 

The  house  stands  upon  a  bluff,  overlooking 
a  bay,  which  spreads  east  and  west  for  many 
miles,  bounded  on  the  south  by  a  long  strip  of 
barren  sand.  •  The  water  is  not  more  than  two 
minutes'  walk  away,  and  at  the  foot  of  the 
country  road  which  leads  down  from  the  gar- 
den to  the  beach  there  is  a  little  dock  jutting 


Home  59 

out  forty  or  fifty  feet  into  the  water,  far  enough 
to  allow  sail-boats  to  be  drawn  up  to  it.  In 
outside  appearance  the  house  has  something 
of  the  English  farmhouse.  The  roof  slopes 
east  and  west  from  a  central  ridge-pole,  with 
no  break  of  any  kind  except  at  the  west  end, 
where  a  big  and  square  chimney-stack  rises  to 
a  few  feet  above  the  level  of  the  ridge-pole. 
On  the  east  end  of  the  house  the  roof  slants 
down  over  a  piazza,  which  is  always  shady  in 
the  afternoons.  Part  of  the  piazza  at  the 
northeast  corner  is  taken  up  with  a  small  re- 
ception-room, opening  upon  the  piazza,  and 
through  which  people  must  pass  in  order  to 
get  into  the  house  itself.  From  this  reception- 
room  portieres  open  to  the  main  room  of  the 
house,  which  is  living-room,  library,  music- 
room,  and  everything  but  dining  -  room  and 
kitchen,  in  one ;  when  we  have  a  crowd,  it  is  a 
dining-room  too.  It  is  thirty  feet  wide,  the 
whole  width  of  the  house,  and  thirty-five  feet 
long.  At  the  end  opposite  the  entrance  is  a 
monumental  fireplace,  built  of  brick  rather  than 
rough  stone,  because  stone  is  scarce  in  this  part 
of  the  world.  The  opening  is  large  enough  to 


60  Home 

allow  big  logs  six  feet  long  to  be  thrown  upon 
the  fire,  and  at  least  four  feet  deep.  Above 
the  fireplace  and  the  old-fashioned  mantle- 
ledge,  which  holds  a  collection  of  more  or  less 
damaged  bric-a-brac,  is  a  device  which  perhaps 
only  a  musician  would  understand  or  care  for. 
A  broad  frieze,  seven  feet  wide  and  three  feet 
high,  has  been  laid  off  in  black  mortar,  and 
upon  this  background  music-staves  have  been 
outlined  with  small  white  sea  pebbles.  Upon 
these  staves  is  the  beginning  of  the  Fire-motive 
which  is  heard  at  the  end  of  Wagner's  Walkure, 
when  Wotan,  the  great  god  of  Northern  my- 
thology, calls  upon  Loge,  the  god  of  Fire,  to 
surround  the  sleeping  Brunhilde  with  fierce 
flames. 

The  plaster  of  this  big  room  is  purposely  left 
rough,  and  is  colored  a  sombre  red.  Across 
the  ceiling  goes  a  big  beam  or  girder  a  foot 
square,  and  were  it  not  for  the  cold  winds  of 
November  and  December,  no  plaster  at  all 
need  have  been  used.  Around  the  whole 
room,  in  lieu  of  a  cornice,  or  frieze,  runs  a 
series  of  silhouettes  of  life-size  heads  of  friends 
of  the  family  who  have  been  inmates  of  the 


Home  61 

house  at  one  time  or  another.  Such  sil- 
houettes, if  cut  out  of  light-brown  paper,  show 
the  profile  outlined  upon  a  black  background 
with  extraordinary  vividness;  the  process  of 
making  them  is  so  simple  that  almost  every 
one  has  tried  it.  With  a  candle  and  a  sheet  of 
paper  the  shadow  of  a  head  is  thrown  upon 
any  paper  screen,  and  a  pencil-mark  will  indi- 
cate where  the  cutting  is  to  be  done.  Under- 
neath each  head  is  the  date  in  big  black  letters, 
painted  in  with  a  brush.  It  is  impossible  to 
feel  lonely  with  such  shades,  literally,  around 
one. 

At  one  side  of  the  big  room  the  staircase 
rises  up  and  passes  in  a  little  gallery,  almost 
over  the  fireplace.  Underneath  the  stairs  and 
alongside  of  the  big  chimney-place  is  a  door 
opening  into  a  very  small  dining-room.  Right 
back  of  the  main  fireplace  is  the  kitchen.  The 
whole  house  measures  thirty  feet  in  width  by 
fifty  feet  in  length,  including  the  piazza..  The 
main  room  is  thirty  feet  wide  by  thirty-five 
feet  in  length,  and  has  windows  opening  on 
the  piazza  to  the  east,  on  the  sea,  or  the  bay, 
to  the  south,  and  on  the  moors  to  the  north. 


62  Home 

Yet  it  is  so  placed  that  the  last  rays  of  the 
setting  sun  get  into  the  house.  On  the  north 
side  of  the  building,  which  is  shingled  from 
top  to  bottom,  and  has  never  been  painted, 
the  storms  of  winter  and  the  sun  of  summer 
gradually  giving  it  a  silver  hue  beyond  the 
beauty  of  any  artificial  paint,  is  a  tennis-court, 
shaded  in  the  afternoon  by  the  house.  Back, 
there  is  a  garden,  small  but  perfectly  kept 
up,  a  chicken-yard,  an  apiary,  and  other  out- 
houses. The  nearness  to  the  sea  is  hinted  at 
by  the  presence  of  some  whales'  vertebrae,  in 
the  shape  of  seats  sprinkled  around  the 
grounds.  The  orchard,  which  is  at  the  back 
of  the  lot,  does  not  count  for  much  except  in 
the  matter  of  pears,  which  are  wonderfully 
successful  in  our  part  of  the  world. 

Such  a  house  as  this,  finished  in  the  roughest 
shape,  but  beautified  by  loving  hands,  and 
literally  strewn  with  bits  of  color  in  the  shape 
of  a  rug  here,  a  gigantic  Japanese  fan  there,  a 
palm-tree  in  this  corner,  and  no  end  of  pottery 
of  the  most  flamboyant  type,  has  a  character 
which  no  amount  of  expensive  commonplace 
work  can  give.  Its  glory  is  the  size  of  its 


Home  63 

chief  room.  There  is  scarcely  a  private  house 
within  miles  which  boasts  a  room  of  that  size, 
and  with  all  its  roughness,  size  produces  a  good 
effect.  In  its  present  shape,  with  the  five  small 
bedrooms  upstairs  finished  in  the  very  cheap- 
est manner,  the  total  cost  of  the  house  has  been 
under  $1600.  Counting  the  cost  of  some  of  the 
ornamental  woodwork,  which  I  have  done  my- 
self as  a  matter  of  personal  pride,  perhaps  the 
whole  building  might  cost  to  duplicate  $1700. 
Yet  the  kitchen  has  all  the  conveniences  of  a 
city  house.  The  range  gives  hot  and  cold 
water;  there  are  stationary  tubs;  and  a  small 
wind-mill  on  the  little  tool-house  near  the 
orchard  pumps  all  the  water  to  the  tank  that 
the  house  can  use.  As  we  are  near  the  sea,  it 
is  rare  that  the  breeze  is  not  sufficient  to  turn 
the  mill,  which  cost  less  than  $200  all  com- 
plete. The  well  is  a  driven  one,  and  gives  an 
inexhaustible  supply  of  good  water. 

It  is  hard  to  give  in  words  anything  like  an 
adequate  picture  of  this  home.  Take  a  hot 
night  in  summer,  with  the  breeze  blowing  right 
across  our  big  room,  and  there  is  no  more  de- 
lightful place  for  music  and  talk.  Until  long 


64  Home 

after  dark  the  only  light  comes  from  the  small 
lamp  inside  a  big  swinging  wrought-iron  bell 
which  hangs  in  the  centre  of  the  room,  a  piece 
which  I  picked  up  years  ago  in  a  junk-shop ; 
it  may  have  been  intended  for  a  hanging  lamp, 
but  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  it  was  originally 
part  of  the  balcony  railing  of  an  old-fashioned 
house  in  lower  Broadway.  At  all  events,  it 
serves  its  present  purpose  admirably.  The 
opalescent  glass  with  which  it  is  now  fitted  casts 
a  subdued  light  throughout  even  so  big  a  room 
as  ours.  If  it  is  pleasant  in  summer,  it  is  bet- 
ter in  winter.  Upon  one  of  our  cold  blowy 
days  in  November  I  know  nothing  so  inspirit- 
ing as  to  get  home  from  my  oystering  or  fishing 
or  hunting,  to  find  the  big  room  a  blaze  of 
light  from  a  royal  fire  of  logs,  the  candles  or 
the  lamps  giving  the  right  points  of  color 
throughout,  the  warmth  and  the  brightness 
making  a  strong  contrast  with  the  cold  wind 
outside  and  the  coming  darkness. 

The  effect  of  such  a  room  is  due  largely  to 
size,  and  next,  to  color.  Its  size  would  give  it 
a  certain  air  even  if  the  walls  and  ceiling  were 
of  unpainted  pine.  But  color  may  be  called 


Home  65 

to  the  rescue  at  almost  no  expense.  For  the 
sake  of  warmth  in  cold  weather,  as  we  stay 
here  until  Christmas,  and  might  want  to  stay 
here  all  the  year  round,  the  walls  have  been 
well  plastered  with  rough  plaster  tinted  red, 
and  forming  an  admirable  background  for 
such  pictures,  skins,  and  bits  of  bric-a-brac 
and  color  as  we  hang  around.  To  plaster  the 
ceiling  would  have  given  an  immense  stretch 
of  plain  surface  almost  unbroken  by  light  and 
shade,  and  to  avoid  this  the  beams  have  been 
left  open,  with  the  immense  girder  running 
across  the  middle  of  the  room  at  right  angles 
with  its  length.  Girder  and  beams  have  not 
even  been  planed ;  the  girder  still  shows  the 
marks  of  the  axe,  and  here  again  rough  color 
comes  to  the  rescue,  for  at  a  cost  of  less  than 
five  dollars  the  whole  ceiling  has  been  painted 
a  rough  brown  red,  giving  an  infinite  variety  of 
nooks  and  corners  in  which  the  shadows  play. 
The  frieze  which  runs  round  the  room  three 
feet  from  the  ceiling,  and  of  the  decoration  of 
which  in  silhouettes  I  have  already  spoken,  is 
painted  very  nearly  black.  All  the  painting 
done  in  this  room  will  last  a  generation,  and 

5 


66  Home 

need  never  be  renewed,  so  far  as  actual  effect 
goes.  The  woodwork  within  reach,  the  doors, 
the  floor,  the  stairs,  the  window  boxes  and 
seats  are  all  oiled  pine,  which  may  be  kept  in 
admirable  order  at  the  expense  of  about  ten 
cents  a  month  for  kerosene  and  a  little  labor  in 
applying  it.  I  have  not  yet  tried  a  winter  in 
this  house,  but  from  the  effect  of  cold  storms 
in  the  late  autumn,  I  imagine  that  it  may  be 
necessary  to  establish  a  large  self-feeding  stove 
in  one  corner  of  the  big  room,  and  perhaps 
carry  the  pipes  across  the  room  to  the  chimney. 
For  the  heating  of  the  upper  part  of  the  house, 
I  shall  try,  should  we  ever  need  to  live  in  it 
after  Christmas,  a  plan  which  has  worked  ad- 
mirably elsewhere  —  namely,  to  cut  square 
register  holes  in  the  flooring  of  the  upper 
rooms  and  trust  to  the  heat  from  the  living- 
room  rising  sufficiently  to  keep  water  from 
freezing  in  the  bedroom  pitchers.  Two  of  our 
upstairs  rooms  are  provided  with  open  hearths, 
and  should  it  become  necessary  to  heat  any 
one  of  the  other  bedrooms,  a  small  stove,  with 
the  pipe  running  through  the  hall  to  the  chim- 
ney, will  be  wholly  sufficient.  We  are  certain 


Home  67 

to  have  plenty  of  air  in  such  a  house,  and  we 
want  it.  Some  statistics  which  I  quote  else- 
where from  Dr.  G.  B.  Barron,  an  English 
authority,  upon  the  effect  of  living  in  small 
rooms,  may  be  read  with  interest  in  this  con- 
nection. 

Housekeeping  in  this  house  has  been  re- 
duced to  scientific  simplicity  and  I  will  ven- 
ture to  say  that  no  time  or  money  is  wasted. 
Some  of  our  devices  partake  a  good  deal  of  the 
picnic.  For  instance,  with  a  view  to  saving 
all  the  labor  possible,  there  is  but  little  wash- 
ing done.  The  children  dress  in  flannel,  and 
to  avoid  washing  dishes  we  have  found  it  pos- 
sible to  use  wooden  plates  for  certain  meals, 
such  as  crab  suppers;  wooden  plates  can  be 
bought  for  nothing  and  become  excellent 
firewood. 

In  order  to  rent  such  a  house  in  the  country, 
if  such  a  house  can  be  found,  which  is  very  un- 
likely, one  would  have  to  pay  at  least  four  or 
five  hundred  dollars  a  summer,  especially  if  it 
was  furnished  so  as  to  be  comfortable  for  a 
large  family.  A  piano,  for  instance,  and  a 
good  one,  is  a  necessity  with  us.  Good  lamps 


68  Home 

for  evenings  and  ample  fireplaces  are  also  neces- 
sary. By  making  our  home  in  the  wilderness, 
if  a  lovely  little  village  can  be  called  a  wilder- 
ness, we  are  able  to  fit  it  with  every  con- 
venience and  comfort,  for  such  things  cost  but 
little  money,  after  all.  I  do  not  suppose  that 
my  whole  investment,  land  and  buildings,  but 
not  including  the  furniture,  rugs,  and  fixtures 
that  were  brought  here  from  the  city  when  I 
gave  up  work  for  sport,  would  represent  an 
outlay  of  more  than  $3000,  and  in  estimat- 
ing my  yearly  expenses,  I  put  down  rent  as 
$150  a  year,  that  being  the  interest  upon  this 
amount. 

As  I  needed  no  large  amount  of  land,  for  an 
acre  suffices  amply  for  all  my  purposes,  I  was 
enabled  to  buy  almost  in  the  heart  of  a  village 
where  land  always  has  a  certain  value;  and 
certainly  with  the  improvements  I  have  made 
my  purchase  has  not  deteriorated.  Had  I  been 
compelled  to  go  far  away  from  the  village,  such 
a  thing  as  selling  out  would  have  been  out  of 
the  question,  for  of  all  the  impossible  things 
to  sell,  country  property  far  from  a  station  is 
the  most  hopeless.  Not  that  I  have  any  idea 


Home 


69 


of  selling,  and  I  will  not  even  give  the  name 
of  the  little  village  where  we  have  found  a 
home,  for  fear  that  I  may  be  suspected  of 
wishing  to  raise  the  price  of  land  by  singing  its 
praises. 


DETAILS  AND  DOLLARS— MY 
GARDEN 

I  HAVE  tried  this  country  life  and  found 
that  it  answers  all  the  requirements  of  my 
modest  way  of  living.  In  looking  over  my 
sources  of  income,  I  should  place  my  garden 
first  and  my  poultry-yard  next.  Of  course, 
after  some  years  of  experimenting,  I  have  dis- 
covered other,  but  subordinate,  sources  of  in- 
come. For  instance,  having  much  time  upon 
my  hands  and  aiming  to  get  all  the  sunshine  and 
fresh  air  and  physical  exercise  that  I  can  find 
during  nine  months  in  the  year  on  my  country 
acre,  I  took  up  a  good  many  little  schemes  for 
money-making — or  rather  money-saving,  for  I 
believe  that  the  city  man  who  retires  to  the 
wilderness  with  the  idea  that  he  is  going  to 
make  money  there,  will,  in  ninety-nine  cases 
out  of  a  hundred,  be  disappointed.  I  can  save 
money  in  the  country  by  providing  things  that 
70 


My  Garden  71 

we  should  buy  almost  as  necessaries — for  in- 
stance, vegetables,  eggs,  honey,  fish,  oysters, 
small  fruits,  and  wood  for  open  fires.  The 
man  who,  having  managed  to  obtain  a  little 
place  of  his  own,  even  if  nqt  more  than  an  acre 
or  two  in  extent,  will  be  singularly  unfortunate 
in  my  opinion,  or  will  work  with  bad  judgment, 
if  he  does  not  succeed  in  providing  for  his 
family  all  the  vegetables,  both  for  winter  and 
summer,  that  they  can  use,  all  the  small  fruits, 
all  the  eggs  and  chickens,  and,  if  he  is  on  the 
sea-shore,  all  the  shell-fish  that  the  neighbor- 
hood affords. 

To  go  into  details,  and  taking  my  own  case 
because,  having  done  what  I  have  done  without 
much  special  knowledge  and  no  apprenticeship, 
so  to  speak,  any  one  else  animated  with  a  love 
of  out-door  work  will  be  able  to  do  as  much, 
or  more,  here  is  a  list  of  the  things  which  I  have 
been  able  to  provide  in  sufficient  quantity  for  a 
large  family :  vegetables  in  profusion  through- 
out the  summer,  and  enough  for  a  large  part 
of  the  winter;  strawberries  and  small  fruits, 
more  than  could  be  used;  ten  times  ths  honey 
that  could  be  used  winter  and  summer,  the 


72  Details  and  Dollars 

honey  sold  being  part  of  the  actual  money  in- 
come of  the  year;  during  autumn  and  early 
winter,  all  the  oysters  and  crabs  that  the  family 
could  be  prevailed  upon  to  eat,  the  children  at 
last  refusing  to  accept  oysters  in  any  shape  as 
a  substitute  for  meat;  all  the  eggs  and  more 
than  could  be  used,  and  chickens  for  the  table 
from  the  end  of  July  until  far  into  the  winter. 
With  the  additional  experience  of  several  years 
of  this  life  I  find  other  sources  of  income  loom- 
ing up,  or  rather  of  money-saving,  for  I  should 
like  to  emphasize  the  idea  that  it  is  not  money- 
making  I  aim  at.  Some  of  my  friends  have 
succeeded  admirably  with  pigeons ;  others  have 
done  wonders  with  mushrooms,  an  acquaintance 
of  mine  out  in  Jersey  having  paid  his  rent  and 
the  wages  of  a  man  out  of  the  proceeds  of  one 
small  mushroom  house  not  twenty-five  feet 
square.  These  are  things  for  future  experi- 
menting with  me,  but  of  the  others  I  can  speak 
with  knowledge. 

At  the  same  time  I  would  warn  any  one  that 
there  is  a  certain  amount  of  danger,  the  worst 
side  of  1  he  picture  having  been  set  forth  amus- 
ingly, although  too  flippantly,  in  my  opinion, 


My  Garden  73 

by  Mr.  Robert  Roosevelt,  in  his  amusing  book, 
Five  Acres  Too  Much.  As  I  have  already  hinted 
in  my  garden  talk,  there  must  be  hard  work 
and  systematic  work,  and  work  done  in  person, 
and  not  by  proxy.  It  may  be  said  that  the 
hired  man  is  the  bane  of  every  garden  so  far  as 
actual  money-saving  is  concerned ;  ten  to  one 
the  inexperienced  city  man  will  find  the  wages 
of  his  man  about  double  the  value  of  the  vege- 
tables or  fruits  obtained.  There  are  seasons  of 
extraordinarily  bad  luck  in  gardening — no  rain, 
or  too  much  rain ;  no  sun,  or  all  sun ;  but  with 
a  small  garden  of  an  acre  or  less  the  intelligent 
workman  is  almost  master  of  the  situation.  I 
can  point  to  no  great  money-making  operations 
as  the  result  of  my  own  gardening,  but  I 
know  of  more  than  one  instance  in  which  high 
culture  of  a  careful  and  intelligent  kind  upon 
one  acre  of  land  has  produced  a  money  profit 
of  $1200  in  one  year.  This,  to  be  sure,  was 
done  in  the  neighborhood  of  high-priced  mar- 
kets, and  by  an  expert.  The  secret  of  it,  as  I 
learned  by  watching  the  process  almost  day  by 
day,  was  to  allow  no  bit  of  the  plot  to  go  to 
waste.  Every  square  foot  of  the  43,560  square 


74  Details  and  Dollars 

feet  in  that  acre  bore  its  crop,  and  bore  the 
best  crop  that  could  be  obtained  from  it  and 
nothing  else.  The  secret  of  keeping  down 
weeds  was  never  to  let  them  get  a  beginning. 
One  man  was  employed  in  doing  nothing  but 
stir  up  the  earth  with  a  cultivator,  with  the  re- 
sult that  every  bit  of  good  in  the  earth  and  in 
the  manure  that  was  put  into  it  went  into  the 
vegetables.  You  cannot  raise  two  crops  at  the 
same  time  from  the  same  ground,  and  it  must 
always  be  borne  in  mind  that  between  vege- 
tables and  weeds,  the  weeds  are  by  far  the 
hardiest  and  most  voracious. 

Mr.  Roosevelt,  in  his  Five  Acres  Too  Muck, 
seems  to  have  had  peculiarly  bad  luck  from  be- 
ginning to  end.  Everything  that  he  took  hold 
of — cow,  pigs,  horse,  garden,  fruit-trees,  straw- 
berries, chickens  —  turned  out  badly,  and  he 
could  not  find  enough  to  say  of  the  misery  of 
his  experience.  He  admitted  that  he  had  been 
led  to  that  experiment  by  reading  Ten  Acres 
Enough.  I  will  confess  that  I  was  led  to  my 
experiments  by  the  same  book,  but  my  experi- 
ence has  been  entirely  satisfactory  to  myself, 
and  I  should  be  sorry  to  think  that  it  was  be- 


My  Garden  75 

yond  me  to  keep  a  small  garden  in  beautiful 
order  and  raise  a  lot  of  chickens. 

The  poultry  question  has  been  so  often  gone 
over,  and  so  many  columns  have  been  written 
about  the  vast  sums  of  money  to  be  made  by 
raising  poultry,  by  sending  spring  chickens  to 
market,  or  by  selling  eggs  when  they  are  dear, 
that  it  is  scarcely  worth  while  to  say  more  than 
a  word  about  my  chickens  here.  I  have  in- 
variably found  that  the  schemes  of  my  friends 
who  went  into  poultry-raising  as  a  business, 
and  several  of  them  have  done  so,  turned  out 
badly,  partly  because  they  expected  to  make 
money  out  of  the  business  instead  of  a  mere 
living,  and  partly  because  the  keeping  of  one 
thousand  chickens  seems  to  be  a  dangerous 
proceeding — to  the  chickens.  In  my  own  case 
I  have  never  attempted  to  have  more  than  fifty 
chickens  at  a  time.  With  an  insignificant  ex- 
penditure this  flock  has  proved  to  be  quite 
sufficient.  Again  this  is  a  case  where  simple 
care  and  system  are  necessary.  In  the  poultry- 
yard  as  well  as  in  the  garden  beautiful  order 
and  precision  in  work  pay.  In  our  part  of  the 
country  ducks  have  also  proved  to  be  one  of 


76  Details  and  Dollars 

the  native  resources,  but  of  that  I  have  no  per- 
sonal knowledge. 

As  to  the  resources  of  the  water,  every  one 
cannot  live  at  the  sea-shore,  and  even  at  the 
sea-shore  there  is  not  always  an  oyster  bed 
near,  or  clams,  or  even  great  lots  of  crabs. 
Friends  of  mine  who  have  attempted  for  a  few 
months  something  of  the  same  life  that  I  lead 
nine  months  in  the  year  and  have  pitched  their 
tents  on  the  Massachusetts  coast,  really  seem 
to  get  more  out  of  the  water  than  out  of  the 
land.  They  get  an  extraordinary  number  of 
fish,  lobsters,  and  clams,  they  get  sea-weed 
which  they  use  as  manure,  and  scarcely  a  day 
passes  without  some  kind  of  sea  food  making 
its  appearance  upon  their  table.  I  have  never 
been  so  fortunate  as  to  be  placed  where  the 
fishing  was  of  such  a  nature  that  I  could  de- 
pend upon  it  from  day  to  day  to  furnish  the 
table.  Nevertheless,  I  have  no  doubt  that 
during  the  summer  and  autumn  I  have  pro- 
vided more  than  fifty  dollars'  worth  of  good 
fish  of  various  kinds,  and  I  leave  out  of  account 
entirely  the  oysters,  because  they  can  be  had 
for  almost  the  picking  up  where  we  are.  With 


My  Garden  77 

us  the  bay  furnishes  perhaps  the  most  valuable 
manure  to  be  found  along  the  coast — the  bony 
fish  which  the  fishermen  get  in  their  nets  in 
enormous  quantities  and  either  sell  to  factories 
where  the  oil  is  squeezed  out  of  them  or  throw 
them  on  the  land  to  be  used  by  the  farmers  as 
manure.  Making  a  liberal  estimate,  I  should 
think  that  the  actual  money  value  of  the  fish, 
crabs,  and  oysters  that  I  get  during  the  sum- 
mer must  be  at  the  least  one  hundred  dollars, 
and  this  is  sport,  as  many  city  men  will  admit, 
and  none  the  less  sport  because  done  week  after 
week,  and  not  during  a  few  days'  escape  from 
the  city. 

I  still  remember  with  something  like  enthu- 
siasm the  impression  that  the  famous  book — 
much  ridiculed  but  nevertheless  of  serious  value 
to  so  many  persons, —  Ten  Acres  Enough,  made 
upon  me  many  years  ago.  At  the  time  when 
I  came  across  it  by  chance  I  was  very  tired  of 
city  life,  of  late  hours  and  long  hours,  of  nerv- 
ous strain,  of  incessant  work  with  few  breath- 
ing spells.  My  routine  at  that  time  consisted 
of  steady  labor  from  nine  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing until  twelve  o'clock  at  night  with  very  few 


78  Details  and  Dollars 

intervals  for  rest  and  recreation.  And  then  it 
often  occurred  that  work  which  had  to  be  done 
took  me  out  of  bed  long  before  daylight.  Four 
years  of  this  sort  of  drudgery  with  very  small 
prospects  of  release  in  the  future  or  of  reward 
which  would  have  made  such  toil  bearable, 
often  caused  me  to  turn  over  in  my  mind 
whether  there  was  not  some  avenue  of  escape. 
As  country  pursuits  had  always  had  a  fascina- 
tion for  me  from  childhood,  I  had  heard  more 
or  less  of  the  famous  Ten  Acres  Enough,  One 
night  as  I  was  leaving  my  office  a  friend  pre- 
sented me  with  an  old  copy  of  the  book,  which 
he  said  would  interest  me  as  I  was  fond  of 
preaching  upon  the  superiority  of  country  life 
to  city  life.  On  the  way  home  I  opened  it 
with  but  small  expectations  that  anything  in 
it  could  apply  to  my  own  case.  With  all  my 
love  for  the  country  and  for  country  pursuits 
I  had  never  thought  of  myself  as  a  practical 
farmer  or  of  the  possibility  of  making  any  kind 
of  a  living  out  of  the  soil.  It  had  been  pointed 
out  to  me  too  often  that  while  potatoes  and 
cabbages  are  raised  all  about  New  York  by  men 
who  make  a  poor  living  at  it,  any  German  or 


My  Garden  79 

Irishman  just  landed  at  Castle  Garden  could 
raise  more  potatoes  or  cabbages  than  I  because 
he  would  have  more  muscle  to  put  into  the 
work. 

Many  of  my  readers  may  happen  to  know 
that  Ten  Acres  Enough  is  the  record  of  the  suc- 
cessful attempt  of  a  Philadelphia  merchant  to 
support  himself  and  his  family  by  raising  straw- 
berries and  other  small  fruits.  Middle  life  had 
found  him  no  nearer  fortune  than  when  he  be- 
gan ;  he  felt  that  strength  was  ebbing  away  and 
he  was  losing  enthusiasm ;  business  cares  were 
becoming  thicker  rather  than  otherwise.  Notes 
had  to  be  met  which  caused  him  constant 
anxiety.  He  could  take  no  pleasure  in  life. 
One  day  a  friend  suggested  to  him  to  drop  the 
whole  effort  for  a  fortune  and  try  for  a  com- 
fortable living  in  quieter,  less  ambitious,  but 
safer  fields.  He  took  the  advice  and  sold  out 
his  business,  realizing  two  thousand  dollars, 
with  which  sum  he  bought  a  little  place  of  ten 
acres  eight  miles  from  Philadelphia,  and  planted 
it  mostly  with  strawberries.  The  book  gives 
the  results  of  five  years'  work,  with  figures 
showing  exactly  what  money  came  in  and  what 


8o  Details  and  Dollars 

went  out.  At  the  end  of  the  five  years  he  had 
recovered  health  and  spirits ;  he  had  kept  his 
family  in  comfort;  he  had  lived  an  out-door 
life  of  far  more  interest  to  himself  than  any 
business  life  could  have  been ;  and  he  found 
his  property  more  valuable  and  his  bank  ac- 
count larger  than  when  he  began.  I  confess 
that  once  having  plunged  into  Ten  Acres 
Enough  I  read  the  book  through  with  more 
eager  interest  than  if  it  had  been  the  most 
absorbing  novel.  Here  was  what  I  had  been 
looking  for.  I  loved  sunshine,  I  was  fond  of 
gardening,  I  had  a  passion  for  grubbing  in  the 
earth,  for  watching  things  grow.  I  had  had 
many  years  of  city  life,  and  far  more  than  my 
share  of  city  amusements  as  my  connection 
with  newspapers  had  supplied  me  with  tickets 
to  all  places  of  entertainment.  I  said  to  my- 
self: "This  is  the  life  for  me ;  I  will  raise  straw- 
berries, raspberries,  blackberries,  and  other 
pleasant  things,  and  if  I  do  not  grow  rich  I 
shall  at  least  have  strength  and  health  where- 
with to  enjoy  the  sunlight  and  the  country  air." 
For  months  this  idea  haunted  me  without 
taking  practical  shape  It  is  no  easy  matter 


My  Garden  81 

for  a  man  absorbed  in  professional  life,  es- 
pecially newspaper  life,  to  get  out  of  it,  and 
without  capital  as  I  was,  the  notion  had  some- 
thing unpleasant  about  it.  To  cut  loose  from 
an  assured  income  was  dangerous.  The  straw- 
berries might  not  grow,  the  drought  might  kill 
my  blackberries,  there  might  be  a  glut  in  the 
market  when  I  came  to  sell,  even  if  I  had  any- 
thing to  sell.  I  might  get  tired  of  solitude,  and 
might  yearn  for  the  nervous  activity  of  the  city 
again.  I  might  come  to  think  that  a  good  opera 
was  worth  a  million  strawberry  plants,  and  the 
end  might  be — as  most  of  my  friends  pre- 
dicted— that  I  should  sell  my  ten  acres  at  a 
tremendous  sacrifice,  and  take  up  my  newspaper 
work  again  under  greater  disadvantages  than 
ever.  Nevertheless,  so  firmly  was  I  convinced 
that  there  is  a  joy  in  gardening  well  worth  striv- 
ing for,  that  when  spring  opened  I  took  a  little 
house  in  New  Jersey  and  began  to  feel  my  way 
along.  I  was  quite  convinced  that  for  a  man 
who  knew  nothing  about  gardening  except 
theoretically,  only  failure  would  result  from 
burning  my  ships  behind  me  at  once.  So  I 
kept  on  with  my  work  in  the  city,  but  moved 

6 


82  Details  and  Dollars 

out  to  the  country,  taking  a  little  place  with  a 
small  garden.  Meantime  I  bought  every  popu- 
lar book  bearing  upon  the  subject  of  garden- 
ing, and  I  subscribed  to  several  agricultural 
newspapers,  which  I  read  with  conscientious 
thoroughness.  I  have  quite  a  little  library 
upon  agricultural  matters,  collected  that  spring 
and  summer. 

My  garden,  to  begin  with,  was  in  the  most 
rudimentary  condition,  having  been  allowed  to 
run  to  grass.  After  digging  up  a  spot  about 
ten  feet  square  in  the  turf,  taking  the  early 
morning  for  the  work,  I  decided  that  it  would 
require  all  summer  to  get  the  garden  fairly 
spaded  up,  and  so  I  hired  a  stalwart  Irishman 
to  do  the  work  for  me,  which  he  did  in  a  week, 
charging  me  nine  dollars  for  the  job.  As  he 
professed  to  be  also  an  expert  in  planting  vege- 
tables, I  bought  a  supply  of  seeds  in  the  city 
and  entrusted  them  to  him,  assuring  myself 
that  once  in  the  ground  the  rest  of  the  work 
would  fall  to  me ;  if  I  could  not  keep  a  garden 
patch  fifty  feet  square  clear  of  weeds,  I  had 
better  abandon  the  business  at  once,  and  all 
hopes  of  making  a  living  out  of  scientific  gar- 


My  Garden  83 

dening.  The  beginning  was  an  unfortunate 
one.  The  weather  happened  to  be  first  very 
wet,  and  then  so  dry  and  hot  that  my  vege- 
tables were  unable  to  break  their  way  through 
the  baked  earth.  When  my  peas  and  beans 
still  gave  no  signs  after  being  in  the  ground 
two  weeks,  I  discovered  that  the  whole 
work  would  have  to  be  done  over  again.  A 
Presidential  campaign  was  beginning  which 
kept  me  in  town  often  late  at  night,  so  that 
the  chief  labor  of  the  garden  fell  to  my  faithful 
Irishman,  who  got  far  more  satisfaction  out  of 
it  than  I  did.  The  vegetables  finally  did  come 
up  above  the  surface,  and  many  an  evening  I 
finished  a  hard  day's  work  by  pumping  and 
carrying  hundreds  of  gallons  of  water  to  pour 
upon  potato  plants,  tomato  plants,  bean  stalks, 
and  other  things  which  a  friend  of  mine,  an 
expert  in  such  matters,  assured  me  were  curi- 
osities of  malformation  and  backwardness.  My 
Irishman  told  me  that  it  was  all  for  want  of 
manure,  and  by  his  advice  I  bought  six  dollars' 
worth  of  manure  from  a  neighboring  stable, 
and  had  it  spread  over  the  ground.  The  bills 
for  my  garden  were  meanwhile  mounting  up. 


84  Details  and  Dollars 

I  had  begun  the  spring  with  a  garden  ledger, 
keeping  an  accurate  account  of  every  penny 
spent,  and  hoping  to  put  on  the  other  side  of 
the  page  a  tremendous  list  of  fine  vegetables. 
The  accounts  are  before  me  now,  and  I  pre- 
sume that  every  one  who  had  been  through 
the  same  experience  has  preserved  some  such 
record. 

The  tools — rakes,  forks,  spades,  hoes,  water- 
ing-pots, lawn-mower,  etc. — cost  me  $18. 
Wages  to  my  stalwart  friend  during  the  whole 
season  were  $26.00;  seeds  were  $2.80;  manure, 
$6.00;  wire  fencing,  made  necessary  in  order  to 
keep  out  a  flock  of  my  neighbors'  hens  labor- 
ing under  the  idea  that  in  my  garden  were  to 
be  found  the  best  insects  of  the  whole  neigh- 
borhood, and  acting  upon  this  belief,  $5.00 — 
total,  $57.80.  Of  this  amount  the  tools  and 
the  wire  fencing  —  say  $20  —  may  be  looked 
upon  as  well  invested  for  the  future,  so  that 
my  actual  outlay,  for  which  I  should  receive 
an  equivalent  in  the  shape  of  vegetables,  was 
about  $37.  The  list  of  vegetables  begins  with 
entries  day  by  day ;  then  the  garden  produce  is 
lumped  at  the  end  of  the  week;  and  finally  in 


My  Garden  85 

September  the  garden  appears  to  have  yielded 
nothing  but  tomatoes  and  beets,  the  potatoes 
having  failed  to  come  to  anything,  owing  to  a 
variety  of  causes,  which  my  assistant  explained 
in  different  ways  on  different  occasions.  One 
day  he  said  that  the  potato  bugs  had  done  it, 
and  another  day  he  was  convinced  that  if  I  had 
put  in  manure  enough  earlier  in  the  season  I 
might  have  had  splendid  potatoes.  In  other 
words,  if  I  had  spent  ten  dollars  for  manure, 
and  had  given  up  my  days  to  fighting  the  bugs, 
I  might  have  had  five  dollars'  worth  of  potatoes 
in  return. 

The  first  entry  of  vegetables  is  in  a  bold 
hand,  and  is  to  the  effect  that  on  the  loth  of 
June  we  had  some  radishes  of  an  estimated 
market  value  of  five  cents.  Then  come  lettuce 
and  peas,  and  later  on  spinach,  beans,  radishes, 
carrots,  and  finally  tomatoes  in  profusion.  For 
some  purpose  which  I  could  never  fathom,  half 
of  my  garden  plot  was  planted  with  cucumbers 
of  a  particularly  hard  and  leathery  type.  They 
throve  in  the  most  wonderful  fashion,  and  there 
were  bushels  of  them,  of  no  earthly  use  to  any 
one ;  we  could  not  eat  them  or  give  them  away. 


86  Details  and  Dollars 

They  rotted  where  they  grew,  and  seemed  to 
serve  no  purpose  except  perhaps  to  enable  my 
assistant  to  point  to  something  in  the  garden 
which  looked  like  a  successful  vegetable.  To 
be  brief  over  a  somewhat  painful  experiment, 
and  estimating  the  garden  stuff  that  we  really 
got  out  of  my  little  plot,  I  should  say  that  de- 
livered at  our  door  the  stuff  would  have  cost 
us  not  more  than  $15,  or  about  half  its  actual 
cost.  I  do  not  take  into  account  the  value  of 
my  work  in  hoeing  up  tons  of  weeds  and  pour- 
ing down  tons  of  water,  because  the  practical 
knowledge  I  gathered  more  than  offsets  these 
tremendous  labors. 

In  the  meantime  I  had  profited  by  studying 
neighboring  gardens,  notably  a  very  beautiful 
one  belonging  to  a  neighbor  who  did  all  the 
work  himself  and  produced  a  crop  of  vege- 
tables which  seemed  to  me  nothing  less  than 
miraculous.  Every  inch  in  this  neighbor's 
garden  seemed  to  grow  something;  his  vege- 
tables took  up  so  much  room,  were  so  close 
together  that  the  weeds  had  not  a  chance  to 
squeeze  themselves  in.  He  worked  upon  the 
theory  that  one  square  foot  of  garden  properly 


My  Garden  87 

manured  and  properly  attended  to  was  more 
productive  than  four  square  feet  half  taken  care 
of,  and  his  results  proved  the  soundness  of  his 
ideas.  It  was  owing  to  this  neighbor's  advice 
that  my  second  summer's  work  in  my  little 
garden — for  I  was  determined  not  to  give  the 
ground  up  although  it  had  proved  a  costly  toy, 
was  far  more  satisfactory  in  every  way  than 
the  first.  I  discovered  that  my  neighbor's 
total  expenses  of  the  year  for  his  garden,  which 
was  a  far  larger  one  than  mine,  were  less  than 
$10,  nine  tenths  of  which  sum  went  for  manure. 
He  did  all  the  work  himself,  got  his  seeds  and 
plants  from  neighboring  gardens,  and  the  value 
of  his  product  exceeded  $100  during  the  sum- 
mer. This  was  something  like  gardening,  and 
if  one  man  not  a  Hercules  could  do  it,  why  not 
I?  My  second  summer  showed  that  by  devot- 
ing an  average  of  two  hours  a  day  to  my  little 
garden  patch  I  could  save  about  fifty  dollars  in 
the  vegetable  bill  of  the  family.  Estimating 
that  the  garden  work  begins  on  the  1st  of  May 
and  ends  on  the  ist  of  September,  we  have 
four  months,  or  120  days,  during  which  I  gave 
two  hours  a  day,  or  240  hours,  to  my  garden. 


88  Details  and  Dollars 

At  ten  hours  a  day  this  represents  twenty-four 
days  or  a  month's  work.  At  my  regular  pro- 
fession I  can  make  $200  or  more  during  the 
month,  so  that  at  first  view  the  occupation  of 
raising  vegetables  does  not  appear  well,  finan- 
cially speaking.  Upon  the  other  hand,  con- 
sidering that  these  two  hours  a  day  were  to  me 
hours  of  genuine  enjoyment  and  that  the  work 
unquestionably  did  me  good  in  every  way,  I 
can  say  that  the  garden  was  a  success. 

A  good  many  years  have  passed  since  I  be- 
gan my  little  garden  out  in  New  Jersey.  In 
the  course  of  events  I  found  myself  compelled 
to  give  up  playing  at  garden  and  to  move  back 
to  New  York.  Newspaper  life  takes  all  or 
nothing  out  of  a  man,  and  I  was  by  no  means 
ready  or  able  to  neglect  serious  work  which 
paid  me  a  very  fair  living  in  order  to  amuse 
myself  in  a  Jersey  garden.  But  during  those 
years  of  experiment  I  had  learned  a  good  deal 
about  practical  gardening.  I  learned  enough 
to  know  that  with  less  than  three  hours'  work 
a  day  I  can  provide  a  good-sized  family  with  all 
the  potatoes,  cabbages,  turnips,  carrots,  onions, 
and  beets  that  will  be  needed  the  year  round ;  all 


My  Garden  89 

the  raspberries,  blackberries,  strawberries,  and 
currants  for  the  summer;  all  the  peas,  beans, 
beets,  lettuce,  spinach,  and  tomatoes  that  will 
be  needed  in  summer.  And  I  can  do  this  with 
an  expenditure  for  manure  not  exceeding  $12, 
provided  the  ground  is  in  reasonably  good 
condition.  I  think  that  the  reader  will  admit 
that  this  is  something  well  worth  knowing. 
The  trouble  with  most  men  who  go  into  gar- 
dening upon  a  small  scale  is  that  they  pay  out 
money  for  what  they  should  do  themselves  to 
men  who  are  often  lazy  or  dishonest,  and  that 
while  they  themselves  may  work  very  hard  for 
a  few  hours  or  a  few  days,  the  work  is  inter- 
mittent, and  that  is  the  worst  sort  of  work  for 
a  garden.  With  a  garden,  the  maxim, ' '  a  stitch 
in  time  saves  nine,"  is  particularly  true.  I 
have  seen  pieces  of  ground  in  such  a  condition 
that  in  half  an  hour's  work  with  a  steel  hoe  I 
could  kill  every  weed  there ;  three  weeks  later 
to  do  the  same  thing  would  have  required  a 
day's  work  or  more,  and  then  it  would  not  have 
been  well  done.  To  manage  a  small  garden 
scientifically  is  a  matter  for  the  most  systematic 
kind  of  work.  Three  hours  a  day  of  steady 


90          Details  and  Dollars 

work  upon  a  plot  one  hundred  feet  square  will 
give  everything  that  can  be  wanted  in  the 
shape  of  small  vegetables.  If  potatoes  and 
cabbages  are  required  a  larger  patch  will  be 
needed,  but  even  then  systematic  culture  will 
tell  wonderfully.  The  use  of  new  tools,  such 
as  the  hand  cultivator,  which  does  more  work 
in  half  an  hour  than  can  be  accomplished  with 
a  hoe  in  two  hours,  has  greatly  simplified  the 
raising  of  vegetables  in  a  small  garden.  It  is 
also  more  than  true  that  one  square  foot  well 
cared  for  is  equal  to  three  times  the  area  half 
cultivated. 

Still  another  source  of  income  which  has 
been  suggested  to  me  by  my  tramps  around 
the  country,  and  a  business  which  offers  no  ex- 
traordinary difficulties  to  the  inexperienced,  is 
the  raising  of  fine  fruits  for  our  New  York 
market.  We  have  scores  of  farmers  in  my 
neighborhood  who  make  a  living,  and  a  com- 
fortable one,  from  their  fields  and  their 
orchards,  and  trust  almost  to  luck  for  the 
quality  of  what  they  have  to  sell.  I  have  been 
struck  many  times  with  the  wonderful  return 
for  care  and  manure  made  by  several  species  of 


My  Garden  91 

pear-trees  that  flourish  on  Long  Island.  For 
the  city  beginner  to  undertake  to  raise  apples, 
or  strawberries,  or  common  pears,  or  in  fact 
any  orchard  or  garden  produce  common  in  the 
markets,  is  to  experiment  against  heavy  odds, 
as  he  will  come  in  competition  with  men  who 
have  been  at  it  all  their  lives.  At  the  same 
time,  perhaps  he  will  succeed,  owing  to  better 
methods  and  less  dependence  upon  routine. 
But  what  I  should  advise  the  city  man  who 
wants  to  make  some  money  out  of  his  six  or 
eight  months'  work  in  the  open  air,  is  to  try 
for  something  not  produced  by  his  neighbors, 
or  not  produced  in  the  same  way.  For  in- 
stance, there  are  new  kinds  of  pears,  which 
grow  profusely  in  parts  of  Jersey  and  in  parts 
of  Long  Island,  which  nevertheless  still  bring 
a  large  amount  of  money  as  compared  with 
apples  or  ordinary  pears.  I  should  advise  the 
city  man  to  go  in  for  culture  of  this  sort,  de- 
voting himself  to  an  orchard  of  half  an  acre,  if 
he  cannot  keep  any  more  trees  in  perfect  order. 
I  have  seen  such  astonishing  results  from  these 
new  species  of  pears,  that  were  it  not  easier  for 
me  to  make  more  money  by  one  hour's  writing 


92  Details  and  Dollars 

a  day  than  by  ten  hours'  work  in  an  orchard, 
I  should  certainly  go  into  the  business.  So 
much  is  said  about  the  impossibility  of  making 
any  money  at  gardening  or  fruit-raising  that  it 
is  almost  hopeless  to  convince  any  one  to  the 
contrary,  and  it  is  far  from  my  wish  to  do  any- 
thing of  the  kind.  My  aim  is  to  tell  how  I 
manage  to  do  without  money,  not  how  to  make 
it.  The  first  is  a  topic  upon  which  I  have  had 
some  experience,  for  reasons  beyond  my  con- 
trol, while  as  to  the  last  I  cannot  speak  as  an 
expert.  The  scores  of  books  which  prove  that 
if  a  man  can  raise  ten  thousand  quarts  of  straw- 
berries from  an  acre  of  ground,  and  sell  them 
at  ten  cents  a  quart,  he  will  grow  rich  and  his 
family  will  rejoice,  are  mostly  based  upon  the 
experience  of  some  wonderfully  clever  person ; 
the  truth  of  their  theory  is  irrefutable,  pro- 
vided you  admit  the  premises.  They  remind 
me  of  a  circular  once  sent  to  me  by  a  man  who 
was  offering  fame  and  fortune  in  return  for  ten 
cents  in  stamps.  He  set  forth  that  if  I  bought 
from  him  a  certain  prescription  for  a  magic 
hair-grower,  to  be  manufactured  at  four  cents 
a  bottle,  fortune  was  mine.  For  if  I  sold 


My  Garden  93 

ten  thousand  bottles  of  the  stuff  to  agents  at 
fifteen  cents  a  bottle,  who  in  turn  would  sell  it 
at  twenty-five  cents  a  bottle,  I  would  make 
eleven  hundred  dollars,  the  agents  would  make 
a  thousand  dollars,  and  the  whole  neighborhood 
would  rejoice,  except  perhaps  the  bald-headed 
man  who  bought  the  magic  restorer.  I  can 
tell  people  how  not  to  get  rich  at  newspaper 
writing,  but  I  am  not  yet  ready  to  offer  any 
advice  of  the  sort  given  in  books  patterned 
after  Ten  Acres  Enough.  My  ideal  orchard  is 
one  given  up  to  trees  and  grass,  and  used  for 
poultry  until  the  fruit  begins  to  fall.  The 
trees,  the  grass,  and  the  poultry  are  all  pretty 
sure  to  thrive  with  the  most  ordinary  care. 
The  chickens  kill  the  worms,  and  the  hay  crop 
will  more  than  pay  for  all  the  labor  expended 
in  taking  care  of  the  trees.  As  in  a  garden,  my 
experience  has  been  that  the  very  best  results 
in  an  orchard  are  to  be  obtained  by  the  highest 
culture  of  small  plots.  Two  apple-trees  of  a 
good  sort,  kept  well  pruned,  well  manured,  and 
free  from  insects,  are  likely  to  yield  as  much 
fruit  as  half-a-dozen  neglected  trees,  and  the 
picking  will  not  entail  half  the  labor.  I  see  the 


94  Details  and  Dollars 

same  advice  given  every  day  in  agricultural 
papers  and  books  throughout  the  country,  and 
yet  for  some  reason  a  really  well  kept  orchard, 
with  all  the  trees  in  prime  condition,  the  fences 
in  neat  repair,  and  not  a  superfluous  twig  to  be 
seen,  is  one  of  the  rare  sights  of  the  country. 
It  is  also  the  commonest  sight  to  find  upon  one 
farm  a  few  trees  which  give  a  splendid  grade 
of  fruit,  while  the  next  mile  or  two  will  show 
nothing  but  apples  or  pears  scarcely  worth  the 
picking  —  all  because  the  man  who  planted 
would  not  take  the  trouble  to  pay  a  few  cents 
more  in  order  to  get  choice  stock  from  a  good 
nursery.  Of  all  the  economies  that  pay  least, 
is  the  saving  of  a  few  dollars  in  stocking  a 
young  orchard.  I  have  talked  with  many  of 
our  farmers  about  this,  and  almost  invariably 
the  blunder  is  due  to  small  economy;  they  got 
their  trees  from  some  one  in  the  neighborhood 
who  sold  cheap  as  compared  to  the  prices  of 
first-class  nurseries,  and  as  a  result,  year  after 
year,  their  orchards  gave  them  half  the  returns 
which  would  have  been  received  from  good 
trees.  My  ambition  is  some  day  to  prove  by 
dollars  and  cents  that  it  is  not  impossible  for  a 


My  Garden 


95 


city-bred  man  fond  of  country  work  to  make 
money  in  an  orchard,  for  nothing  that  I  have 
heard  to  the  contrary  (and  every  friend  that  I 
have  warns  me  of  the  futility  of  such  an  at- 
tempt) has  convinced  me  that  starvation  lurks 
everywhere  but  in  the  dust  of  the  city  or  the 
turmoil  of  trade. 


WITH   FISH-LINES   AND   NETS 

BESIDES  my  oystering,  the  fishing  that  I 
have  done  has  proved  to  be  of  no  small 
value  as  part  of  our  scheme.  Unfortunately, 
since  settling  down  by  the  water  the  fishing  ap- 
pears to  have  become  somewhat  scarce  in  my 
neighborhood  as  compared  with  former  years. 
Forty  years  ago,  so  old  men  tell  me,  the  whole 
Great  South  Bay  was  full  of  salt-water  fish ;  there 
were  inlets  from  the  ocean  at  several  points  be- 
tween Fire  Island  and  Moriches,  and  the  sea- 
water  ran  in  through  deep  channels  which  years 
ago  became  choked  up  with  sand.  To-day  there 
is  no  opening  in  the  Great  South  Bay  to  the 
ocean  except  at  Fire  Island.  At  the  other  end 
of  the  bay,  twenty-five  miles  eastward,  the 
water  has  become  so  fresh  that  clams  will  not 
live  in  it,  and  most  fish  are  shy  about  going  so 
far  from  deep  water.  Nevertheless,  we  catch 
crabs  by  the  hundred,  and  in  the  autumn  many 
96 


With  Fish-Lines  and  Nets      97 

young  bluefish,  known  in  the  neighborhood  as 
"snappers."  Once  a  week  I  sail  my  boat 
down  to  the  neighborhood  of  Fire  Island, 
where  from  June  to  November  we  get  some 
good  bluefishing,  thanks  to  our  "chumming" 
machines,  a  device  for  chopping  up  bony-fish 
in  appetizing  shape.  The  boat  is  brought  to 
anchor,  the  sails  furled,  and  this  chopped  fish 
is  thrown  overboard  in  small  quantities.  The 
bluefish,  running  in  or  out  with  the  tide,  are 
attracted  by  the  "chum,"  and  come  to  feed. 
The  hooks  are  baited,  and  thrown  overboard 
along  with  the  chum.  If  fish  are  plenty,  the 
piece  of  chum  which  hides  a  hook  is  sure  to  be 
snapped  up.  When  bluefishing  is  fair  in  the 
Great  South  Bay  we  can  count  upon  a  catch  of 
from  twenty  to  thirty  fish,  ranging  from  one  to 
five  pounds.  But  bluefishing  is  an  uncertain 
sport.  I  find  from  my  diary  that  out  of  twenty 
trips  to  Fire  Island,  eleven  produced  nothing, 
except  that  each  trip  gave  us  ten  or  twelve 
hours  of  glorious  sailing.  An  advantage  of 
this  bay  for  sailing  over  any  other  that  I  know 
of  is  that  if  rough  weather  comes  on  the  little 
craft  can  take  shelter  at  any  of  the  many 

7 


98      With  Fish-Lines  and  Nets 

villages  skirting  the  bay,  and  the  fishermen  can 
get  home  by  train  if  it  is  necessary.  There  is 
always  a  safe  harbor  within  twenty  minutes' 
sail. 

Our  crabbing  is  enough  of  a  resource  to  be 
worth  writing  about.  After  August  it  is  at  its 
best.  Then  the  few  summer  boarders  and  cot- 
tagers who  linger  after  the  middle  of  September 
join  with  the  native  in  hunting  the  scavenger 
of  these  waters,  counting  a  day  lost  which  does 
not  bring  at  least  a  score  of  big  crabs  to  an 
end  which  I  hope  is  not  "something  linger- 
ing." As  an  earnest  believer  in  the  value  of 
the  late  Mr.  Bergh's  work,  I  have  tried  to  find 
out  by  experiment  exactly  how  lingering  is  the 
death  by  boiling  water  to  which  the  crab's 
preference  for  stale  fish  and  other  bits  of  kitchen 
offal  finally  brings  him.  Repeated  experiments 
show  that  death  is  almost  instantaneous,  if  it  is 
true,  as  is  so  often  said,  that  a  crab  lets  go  his 
hold  only  when  dying.  In  order  to  clear  one's 
conscience  upon  this  matter  it  is  necessary  to 
submit  the  crab  to  what  may  be  extremely 
painful  proceedings.  Let  a  strong  crab  get  a 
good  hold  upon  a  piece  of  rope  or  any  other 


With  Fish-Lines  and  Nets      99 

soft  material  not  too  intimately  connected  with 
yourself,  and  lower  him  slowly  into  boiling 
water;  the  crab  will  let  his  claws  and  nearly 
half  of  his  body  get  parboiled  before  he  thinks 
of  letting  go.  Instead  of  this,  begin  by  plung- 
ing the  crab  instantly  under,  and  the  claws  open 
at  once.  The  notion  that  it  is  more  humane, 
as  some  people  contend,  to  half  pulverize  the 
crab  with  an  axe  before  boiling  him,  is  the 
sheerest  nonsense,  as  any  one  can  find  out  by 
experiment. 

The  last  year  has  been  an  excellent  one  for 
crabbing — a  better  catch  has  not  been  known 
since  1876.  Earlier  in  the  season,  before  the 
first  crabs  had  made  their  appearance,  an  old 
"Cap'n  "  and  fisherman  of  this  neighborhood, 
who  is  an  expert  in  all  matters  pertaining  to 
fish,  tides,  weather,  and  profane  language,  told 
me  that  there  would  be  no  crabs  this  year. 
He  is  a  dear  old  man,  close  upon  eighty  years 
of  age,  who  is  so  full  of  gentle  humor  and 
kindly  shrewdness  that  he  can  rip  out  oath 
after  oath  without  offending  any  one.  "He 
swears  so  gently,"  said  a  lady  of  my  acquaint- 
ance, "that  it  does  n't  seem  like  real  swearing. " 


ioo    With  Fish-Lines  and  Nets 

"That  'ere blizzard,"  said  the  old  fellow 

to  me  one  evening  in  June,  as  we  sat  on  some 
eel-pots  discussing  the  next  day's  weather, 

"killed  every crab  in  the  bay,  sure.  The 

ice  hurt  'em ,  and  then  the bliz- 
zard made  the  water  so  cold  that  the crit- 
ters all  died.  You  won't  see  a crab  here 

this  summer." 

But  it  seems  that  the  crab  crop  is  somewhat 
like  the  peach  crop.  The  regular  spring  an- 
nouncement to  the  effect  that  every  peach-bud 
in  the  country  has  been  nipped  by  the  frost  is 
hailed  with  joy  by  every  lover  of  peaches,  who 
then  feels  sure  that  a  fair  crop  can  be  counted  up- 
on. The  blizzard  may  have  done  many  things ; 
it  certainly  did  not  kill  all  the  crabs.  It  knocked 
down  the  docks  of  the  neighborhood,  and  put 
back  the  spring  about  a  fortnight;  it  did  all 
sorts  of  damage  to  chimneys,  roofs,  and  fences. 
But  it  did  not  kill  the  crabs,  and  it  gave  an  in- 
exhaustible topic  of  conversation  to  the  gentry 
who  gather  around  the  store-stove  six  nights 
out  of  the  seven  to  settle  the  affairs  of  the  na- 
tion, if  talk  can  settle  them.  If  the  fish  did 
not  bite ;  if  the  summer  was  windy  and  cold — 


With  Fish-Lines  and  Nets    101 

which  it  was;  if  the  surf  was  dangerous,  the 
apple  crop  poor,  and  the  potatoes  rotten,  the 
fault  was  laid  to  the  blizzard,  that  awful  visita- 
tion, when,  as  the  Cap'n  says,  "New  York 
did  n't  hear  from  us  for  more  than  a  week." 

The  crab  is  a  stupid  fellow  about  the  traps 
laid  for  him,  and  when  hungry  will  hang  to  a 
bit  of  fish  even  when  lifted  half  out  of  water. 
The  later  the  season  and  the  bigger  the  crab, 
the  more  certainty  that  no  crabs  will  escape. 
I  suppose  that  we  catch  our  crabs  in  about  the 
same  fashion  that  crabs  are  caught  everywhere ; 
tie  a  piece  of  fish  or  meat  to  a  string,  throw  it 
off  a  wharf  or  off  your  boat,  and  wait  for  a 
bite.  The  crab,  prowling  about  the  bottom 
seizes  it  with  his  nippers,  and  begins  his  meal. 
By  raising  the  bait  a  few  inches  from  the  bot- 
tom, a  person  can  tell,  after  small  experience, 
whether  a  crab  is  around  or  not.  If  the  crab 
likes  his  fare,  he  will  hold  on  until  he  is  drawn 
well  up  to  the  surface,  when,  with  a  deft  move- 
ment, the  scoop-net  is  run  under  him,  and  all 
is  over  for  that  crab.  All  kinds  of  bottoms 
seem  to  suit  him — sand,  mud,  even  eel-grass. 
When  caught  in  a  calm  and  able  to  drift  slowly 


102     With  Fish-Lines  and  Nets 

over  the  flats  which  extend  for  a  mile  or  more 
into  the  bay  from  the  narrow  sand  strip  which 
separates  us  from  the  ocean,  one  can  catch  crabs 
by  the  dozen  if  quick  with  the  net  and  not  too 
afraid  of  falling  overboard.  The  favorite  habitat 
of  the  beast,  however,  is  the  channels  which 
skirt  the  shore,  especially  where  the  offal  from 
boarding-houses  or  hotels  is  thrown  into  the 
water.  It  is  counted  poor  sport  when  an  after- 
noon's crabbing  does  not  produce  thirty  or 
forty  crabs.  On  calm  days,  the  boys  often 
catch  their  basketful  by  watching  the  water 
along  the  sides  of  the  docks;  the  crabs  swim 
on  the  surface  in  search  of  the  shrimps  and 
minnows  that  hide  in  the  grass  and  sea-weeds 
that  grow  upon  the  spiles. 

The  money  value  of  the  crab,  even  here, 
where  they  can  be  caught  by  wholesale,  is  suffi- 
cient to  cause  many  of  the  fishermen  to  make 
a  business  of  "shedding  "  them  in  confinement. 
Fair  hard-shell  crabs  are  worth,  even  upon  the 
dock  here,  thirty  cents  a  dozen,  while  for 
"shedders"  or  soft-shells,  a  dollar  a  dozen  is 
not  considered  exorbitant.  This  high  price  of 
soft-shell  crabs  has  resulted  in  a  regular  busi- 


With  Fish-Lines  and  Nets    103 

ness  of  keeping  in  floating  boxes  or  "cars" 
such  crabs  as  are  about  to  shed  their  shells. 
An  expert  can  tell  the  crab  that  is  going  to 
'shed  almost  without  looking  at  him.  By  dint 
of  questioning  every  man  within  two  miles  of 
here  who  owns  a  car  I  think  that  I  can  tell 
some  crabs  that  are  going  to  shed.  To  the 
inexperienced  all  crabs  look  alike;  they  are 
crawling  creatures  with  a  surprising  grip.  Few 
persons,  and  no  women,  ever  get  near  enough 
to  a  crab  to  admire  his  superb  coloring  and  the 
delicacy  of  his  work  upon  a  piece  of  old  fish. 
But  the  student  who  has  listened  to  a  dozen 
life-long  experts  and  has  tried  to  reconcile  their 
wholly  opposite  accounts  of  the  nature  of  the 
animal,  knows  that  there  are  crabs  and  crabs. 
Turn  a  dozen  crabs  over  on  their  backs  and 
they  may  easily  be  divided  into  three  classes. 
One  set  will  be  perfectly  white,  with  the 
"breast-bone"  or  plate  a  narrow  strip;  an- 
other set  have  the  breastplate  expanded  so 
as  almost  to  cover  the  whole  shell  and  streaked 
in  dark  blue  and  green ;  still  others  have  the 
narrow  breastplate,  but  the  whole  under  part 
of  the  crab  is  discolored  and  not  a  cream-white. 


104    With  Fish-Lines  and  Nets 

The  first  class  comprise  crabs  that  have  already 
shed  this  year  and  have  grown  hard.  The 
second  class  are  the  "pocket-books,"  as  the 
fishermen  call  them,  crabs  that  will  shed  no 
more ;  and  the  third  class  are  those  which  may 
shed  their  shells  this  year.  For  eating,  the 
crab  with  a  cream-white  color  upon  the  under- 
side is  most  esteemed.  All  the  very  large  crabs 
are  likely  to  be  "pocket-books,"  but  some  that 
I  have  eaten  were  quite  as  good  as  any  of  the 
white  fellows.  An  expert  can  tell  by  squeez- 
ing the  crab  whether  the  shedding  period  is 
near.  If  within  a  few  days  of  the  time,  the 
crab  is  put  into  a  car  with  others  supposed  to 
be  in  about  the  same  condition.  It  might  be 
thought  that  soft-shelled  crabs  ought  to  be 
cheap  if  they  can  be  hatched  out  in  this  easy 
fashion.  The  trouble  is  that  eternal  vigilance 
is  the  price  of  the  soft-shell  crab.  Every 
fisherman  has  to  watch  his  crabs  night  and  day 
if  he  wishes  to  save  his  soft-shell  crabs  from 
being  eaten  by  the  other  crabs.  Until  within 
five  hours  of  the  shedding,  the  crab  retains  his 
activity  and  voracity,  when  he  will  fall  upon 
anything  eatable;  then  comes  a  period  of 


With  Fish-Lines  and  Nets    105 

stupor,  and  then  the  old  shell  is  thrown  off, 
leaving  a  perfect  crab,  one  size  larger,  but  soft 
and  helpless.  If  all  the  other  crabs  in  the  box 
are  not  equally  helpless,  the  new  soft-shell  fares 
no  better  than  in  Washington  Market.  My 
friend,  the  Cap'n,  examines  his  crabs  at  six  in 
the  morning,  at  noon,  at  six  o'clock  at  night, 
and  often  again  at  midnight,  when  he  has  a 
large  number  of  "shedders  "  on  hand.  More- 
over, a  crab  gets  hard  so  quickly  that  for  market 
purposes  he  should  be  taken  out  of  the  car  and 
packed  in  sea-weed  the  moment  he  sheds.  In 
five  hours  after  shedding,  a  crab,  if  left  in 
water,  becomes  a  "leather-back"  and  of  no 
value,  comparatively  speaking.  There  is  one 
man  near  us  who,  with  the  aid  of  his  two  boys, 
sends  to  market  more  than  a  hundred  "soft- 
shells  "  a  day  in  the  season.  The  artificial 
propagation  of  crabs  in  shallow  salt-water 
ponds  has  been  tried  here,  but  abandoned, 
owing  to  the  regularity  with  which  the  crabs 
devour  their  young  when  they  can  catch  them. 
Cooks  seem  to  differ  as  to  the  right  time 
which  a  crab  should  boil.  Expert  opinions  vary 
from  five  minutes  to  half  an  hour.  I  am  inclined 


io6    With  Fish-Lines  and  Nets 

to  think,  after  many  experiments,  that  twenty 
minutes  is  none  too  long,  and  that  half  an 
hour's  boiling  does  no  harm.  If  the  pail  of 
crabs  is  lifted  to  the  edge  of  the  pot  of  boiling 
water,  and  slightly  tilted,  the  crabs  will  walk 
to  their  own  death  upon  hearing  the  bubble  of 
the  water.  Thus  it  is  pleasant  to  think  that 
the  crab's  last  impressions  may  have  been  a 
satisfaction  to  him ;  the  gurgle  of  water  is  in 
his  ears  as  he  takes  the  plunge,  and  before  he 
discovers  that  he  is  not  in  the  Great  South  Bay 
all  things  are  indifferent  to  him.  The  change 
of  color  from  dark-green  and  blue  to  cardinal- 
red  takes  place  the  moment  after  the  crab  is  in 
boiling  water,  and  is  no  indication  that  he  is 
cooked.  Those  persons  who  know  the  cooked 
crab  only  have  no  conception  of  the  superb 
coloring  in  green,  turquoise-blue,  and  ivory- 
white  which  makes  a  live  crab  a  thing  of 
beauty.  Crabs  in  market  are  so  often  cooked 
in  order  to  keep  them  the  better,  that  it  is  no 
wonder  some  people  imagine  that  the  crab 
goes  through  life  in  a  scarlet  coat.  I  saw  last 
winter  a  game  picture  which  had,  among  other 
things,  a  bright-red  crab  crawling  off  the  dish. 


With  Fish-Lines  and  Nets     107 

A  friend  of  mine  insists  that  in  order  to  eat 
a  crab  with  any  comfort  it  is  necessary  to  have 
at  hand,  besides  the  crab,  a  bowie-knife,  a 
hammer,  and  a  bucket  of  water.  Others, 
equally  ignorant,  insist  that  there  is  nothing  to 
eat  in  a  crab.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  opening 
of  a  crab  can  be  made  a  pleasure,  and  there  is 
really  a  great  deal  of  delicious  eating  to  be 
found.  To  begin  with,  the  outfit  for  crab- 
eating  should  consist  of  nut-picks,  nut-crackers, 
finger-bowls,  and  napkins.  The  big  claws  are 
easily  broken  open  with  the  nut-crackers.  The 
legs  can  be  thrown  away  in  times  of  plenty. 
To  get  at  the  inside  of  a  crab  with  neatness 
and  despatch,  turn  up  the  under  breastplate 
and  break  it  off.  Then  the  whole  back  can  be 
lifted  off,  exposing  a  good  deal  of  a  yellow, 
greenish  substance,  which  is  the  fat  of  the  crab 
and  its  best  relish.  Having  the  crab  divested 
of  underplate  and  back-shell,  break  it  in  two, 
and  the  white  meat  will  be  readily  extracted 
with  a  nut-pick.  The  muscles  which  operate 
the  crab's  claws  and  legs  constitute  the  meat. 
A  little  practice  will  convince  any  one  that 
crabs  are  not  to  be  despised.  Their  flavor  is 


io8    With  Fish-Lines  and  Nets 

incomparably  finer  than  that  of  a  lobster,  while 
the  scientific  opening  of  a  crab  has  all  the 
charm  of  a  surgical  operation. 

To  those  who  contend  that  crabs  are  deadly 
poison,  especially  if  eaten  after  dark,  I  can  only 
say  that  I  have  experimented  upon  myself  and 
upon  a  number  of  other  people's  children  with- 
out unpleasant  results.  A  crab  (cooked)  is  one 
of  the  favorite  playthings  of  babies  in  this 
neighborhood.  It  is  said  that  milk  and  crabs, 
when  taken  together,  raise  a  tempest  inside  of 
one.  Again  I  may  say  that  I  have  experi- 
mented and  escaped.  The  probability  is,  that 
people  who  eat  crabs  with  vinegar  and  other 
rich  sauces  ought  not  to  drink  milk  at  the  same 
time. 

How  to  handle  a  crab  is  a  subject  better 
taught  by  actual  experience  than  by  directions. 
It  is  not  so  difficult  a  matter  as  most  people 
suppose,  and  the  ladies  who  would  no  sooner 
meet  a  crab  than  some  terrible  beast  of  prey — 
say  a  mouse — are  all  wrong.  I  have  known  a 
whole  earful  of  people  utterly  demoralised  by 
a  few  poor  timid  little  crabs.  During  the  sum- 
mer some  friends  who  went  crabbing  with  me 


With  Fish-Lines  and  Nets    109 

one  day  wanted  to  take  a  few  fine  specimens 
to  New  York.  I  packed  them  carefully  in  a 
basket,  with  sea-weed  below  and  on  top,  and 
over  all  I  tied  a  newspaper.  It  was  dark  when 
my  friend  and  his  wife  reached  the  railway. 
He  put  the  basket  under  the  seat  in  the  car  and 
went  to  sleep.  Just  as  he  was  dreaming  that 
he  had  landed  a  crab  as  big  as  a  porpoise,  his 
wife  awoke  him  with  a  tragic  whisper :  "Harry, 
the  crabs  are  out — one  has  just  walked  over  my 
foot!" 

The  situation  was  a  critical  one.  The  wet 
sea-weed  had  weakened  the  paper  covering  of 
the  basket,  and  the  crabs  were  coming  forth 
in  a  solemn  procession ;  by  the  looks  of  the 
basket,  at  least  twenty  must  have  gone — some- 
where. My  friend  jammed  a  heavy  shawl  into 
the  basket  over  what  remained,  and  awaited 
developments  in  fear  and  trembling.  They 
were  not  long  in  coming.  A  shriek  from  a 
lady  at  the  other  end  of  the  car  announced 
that  one  crab  had  made  his  presence  felt.  All 
was  excitement  in  a  moment.  "She  's  got 
heart  disease,"  said  one  old  gentleman;  "stop 
the  train  and  get  a  doctor."  "Catch  it,  catch 


no    With  Fish-Lines  and  Nets 

it,  it  's  under  my  seat,  it  's  bitten  my  foot ! " 
cried  the  poor  woman.  My  friend  had  to 
do  something.  "Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  he 
shouted,  "  it  's  all  right.  A  few  little  crabs  that 
I  had  in  a  basket  have  escaped — that  's  all." 
That  was  all,  was  it?  Every  woman  in  the  car 
jumped  shrieking  upon  the  seats,  and  quiet 
was  restored  only  when  the  last  crab  had  been 
kicked  off  the  rear  platform  by  the  brake- 
man. 

If  taken  properly,  the  crab  is  the  most  harm- 
less of  dangerous  beasts.  Bear  in  mind  that  if 
you  take  a  crab  firmly  where  the  hind-legs  join 
his  body,  he  cannot  get  at  you  with  his  nip- 
pers; also  that  any  quick  motion  disconcerts 
the  crab  for  the  moment,  and  you  will  be 
master  of  the  situation.  By  a  little  experi- 
menting you  will  find  the  exact  place  where  a 
crab  may  safely  be  seized,  and  possibly  some 
places  where  it  is  not  safe.  Rapid  passes  be- 
fore the  eyes  of  a  crab  appear  to  paralyze  him. 
If,  therefore,  you  quickly  turn  him  over  and 
over  until  you  see  an  opportunity  of  seizing 
him  by  the  hind-leg  close  to  the  body,  there  is 
not  one  chance  in  five  that  the  crab  will  get 


With  Fish-Lines  and  Nets    in 

hold  of  you  before  you  get  hold  of  him.  After 
all,  suppose  he  does  get  a  nip  now  and  then? — 
his  revenge  for  ill-treatment  is  insignificant 
compared  with  what  yours  will  be. 


WE   GO   A-FISHING 

AT  daylight  all  was  bustle  and  preparation 
for  a  fishing  trip  to  Fire  Island;  one 
would  think  from  the  excitement  of  the  chil- 
dren that  we  went  fishing  but  once  a  year  in- 
stead of  once  a  week,  and  that  the  prospect  of 
catching  a  fish  was  something  altogether  un- 
usual. I  do  not  remember  a  more  perfect 
morning.  When  Arthur  and  I  started  down  to 
the  boat  to  see  that  all  was  ready,  an  iridescent 
mist  hung  over  the  bay,  and  the  distant  high- 
lands down  toward  Fire  Island  were  tipped 
with  fire.  The  air  was  cool  enough  to  make 
one  relish  the  idea  that  the  sun  would  be  warm 
in  a  few  hours,  and  there  was  enough  promise 
of  a  breeze  to  warrant  a  start  as  soon  as  break- 
fast  had  been  disposed  of.  It  was  a  pleasure 
even  to  jump  aboard  the  Nelly  and  get  her 
ready  for  her  thirty-mile  trip.  The  man  who 
does  not  love  the  water  and  a  boat  can  scarcely 

112 


We  Go  A-Fishing  113 

understand  such  joy  as  this ;  but  to  me  and  to 
some  people  I  know,  a  boat,  and  especially  a 
sail-boat,  is  a  never-failing  source  of  pleasure. 
The  fact  that  I  have  seen  some  pretty  rough 
days  in  the  Nelly,  and  that  there  have  been 
times  when  I  would  not  have  wagered  much 
upon  my  chances  of  getting  her  into  port,  seems 
rather  to  endear  her  to  us;  a  boat  that  has 
stood  a  hundred  gales,  and  has  carried  us  thou- 
sands of  miles,  deserves  something  of  gratitude 
in  return.  I  cherish  on  the  desk  at  which  I 
now  write  a  brass  cleat  from  a  little  sail-boat  I 
once  owned ;  it  serves  as  a  paper-weight,  and 
as  a  reminder  of  scores  of  pleasure  days.  On 
one  side  of  it  is  engraved  the  name  of  the  boat, 
and  on  the  other  the  date — "April-December, 
1880."  When  the  time  came  for  selling  her,  I 
retained  this  memento  of  many  an  exciting  sail, 
and,  as  my  wife  would  add,  of  many  a  hair- 
breadth escape. 

We  hoisted  the  Nelly  s  sail  to  dry  in  the  sun, 
and  started  back  to  breakfast.  There  were  but 
few  of  the  natives  about  the  shore,  but  among 
those  few  I  found  my  friend  the  Cap'n,  who 
had  been  out  to  his  nets,  and  had  brought  back 

8 


1 14  We  Go  A-Fishing 

a  plentiful  supply  of  "bunkers,"  which  we 
could  have  as  bait.  These  "bunkers"  are  the 
"bony-fish,"  or  the  menhaden  of  the  oil  fac- 
tories; when  our  bay  fishermen  take  them  in 
their  nets,  they  are  not  thrown  back,  but  are 
used  as  manure.  As  the  Cap'n  says,  every 
"bunker"  represents  a  good-sized  potato  to 
him.  For  a  few  cents  we  get  a  bucketful  of 
them  for  bait.  It  is  six  o'clock  by  the  time 
we  get  back  to  the  house,  to  find  the  breakfast 
steaming  on  the  table.  Half  an  hour  later  we 
are  off  to  the  shore  again,  and  before  seven 
o'clock  the  Nelly  is  bowling  along  westward  at 
the  rate  of  five  miles  an  hour.  The  village  is 
still,  to  all  intents  and  purposes,  asleep,  al- 
though the  sun  has  begun  to  melt  the  mists, 
and  the  air  has  lost  the  keen  sharpness  of  an 
hour  before.  As  we  glide  along,  all  to  the 
south  of  us,  over  towards  the  ocean,  is  one 
flood  of  golden  light,  with  the  low  ridge  of  the 
sand  hills  standing  out  in  shadow ;  above  these 
lines  of  sand  dunes  the  morning  sky  is  re- 
splendent, and  between  us  and  the  beach  the 
bay  glitters  with  dancing  sunbeams.  On  the 
other  side  we  have  the  Long  Island  shore,  with 


We  Go  A-Fishing  1 1 5 

its  hills  and  woods,  its  farmhouses  and  hay- 
stacks. From  our  point  of  view,  about  a  mile 
out  in  the  bay,  we  can  see  the  spires  of  half-a- 
dozen  villages — Bellport,  Patchogue,  Bayport, 
and  Sayville  among  them.  The  prevalent  idea 
to  the  effect  that  Long  Island  is  a  flat  stretch 
of  sand,  is  one  of  the  first  impressions  to  dis- 
appear when  one  gets  out  upon  the  water  here. 
There  are  no  mountains,  to  be  sure,  but  we 
have  respectable  hills,  and  when  seen  from  the 
water  in  certain  lights  they  give  a  mountainous 
background  to  the  country  along  the  shore. 
To  get  the  full  effect  of  these  Long  Island  hills 
as  an  imposing  background,  one  has  to  sail 
from  the  Great  South  Bay  down  to  Moriches 
on  just  such  a  morning  as  this.  Starting  from 
Patchogue  at  five  or  even  at  six  o'clock,  if  the 
wind  is  fair,  the  entrance  to  the  narrow  strait 
at  Smith's  Point  is  reached  before  the  mists 
rise,  and  one  gets  a  view  of  Moriches,  which 
has  reminded  more  than  one  person  I  know  of 
a  miniature  Swiss  landscape.  The  little  village 
seems  to  nestle  at  the  foot  of  a  range  of  moun- 
tains, more  or  less  imposing,  according  to  the 
power  of  the  sun  upon  the  mists.  Sailing  out 


n6  We  Go  A-Fishing 

of  Patchogue,  we  could  not  imagine  ourselves 
upon  a  Swiss  lake,  for  the  hills  in  the  back- 
ground were  too  far  off  to  dominate  the  town  ; 
moreover,  the  air  was  better  than  ever  blew 
over  Lake  Geneva. 

A  fishing  expedition  to  us  who  live  nearly  at 
the  other  end  of  the  Great  South  Bay,  means 
a  day's  trip,  as  a  rule,  and  as  usual  we  get 
fairly  off  before  we  begin  to  take  stock  of  the 
necessaries  that  have  been  left  behind.  It  is  a 
twelve-mile  sail  to  the  cinder-beds,  as  our 
fishing-grounds  are  called,  and  as  we  are  pretty 
sure  to  have  to  beat  against  the  wind  one  way, 
it  is  called  a  thirty-mile  sail  there  and  back. 
There  are  five  of  us  in  the  boat,  not  counting 
the  children,  and  to  two  of  our  friends  the  trip 
is  a  novel  one  in  every  respect ;  they  had  never 
been  on  the  bay  before,  they  had  never  seen  a 
bluefish  caught,  and  they  had  serious  doubts 
as  to  whether  a  day  on  the  water  might  not 
end  in  disaster.  One  of  the  ladies  had  braved 
the  terrors  of  a  thirty-mile  sail,  notwithstand- 
ing the  fact  that  when  she  went  last  to  Europe 
she  was  so  sea-sick  that  "everything  came  out 
of  her  except  her  immortal  soul."  Sailing  on 


We  Go  A-Fishing  n; 

our  bay  is  somewhat  dangerous  to  sea-sick 
people,  because  it  is  so  shallow  that  a  breeze 
makes  a  sea  in  less  time  than  it  takes  to  tell  it ; 
because  the  water  is  like  a  mill-pond  in  the 
morning  is  no  promise  that  it  may  not  be  like 
the  "raging  main"  by  afternoon.  Especially  is 
this  the  case  when  the  wind  is  from  the  north. 
I  have  recorded  the  results  of  a  "norther" 
often  enough  to  feel  certain  as  to  the  day's 
weather  on  this  water;  when  the  water  is 
smooth,  and  the  north  breeze  comes  in  the 
morning  like  a  zephyr,  look  out  for  a  squally 
gale  by  noon — one  of  the  worst  winds  we  have 
for  small  boats.  It  will  blow  in  gusts  all  day 
until  the  sun  sinks,  when  it  will  die  away,  and 
the  day  will  end  as  it  began. 

As  we  sailed  along  I  gave  our  friends  some 
details  as  to  the  life  upon  the  Great  South  Bay, 
its  pleasures  and  its  hardships,  which  may  be 
resumed  in  a  few  pages  and  may  possibly  in- 
terest people  who  know  little  about  this  part 
of  the  coast  and  its  sports.  As  between  a  life 
along  the  coast  and  a  life  in  the  hills,  I  have 
found  by  experience — my  own  and  that  of 
others  —  that  success  depends  largely  upon 


n8  We  Go  A-Fishing 

temperament  and  constitution.  There  are 
people  who  cannot  stand  salt  air,  much  as  they 
love  it ;  and  I  have  known  earnest  lovers  of  the 
sea  and  the  coast  to  suffer  such  agonies  from 
throat  and  lung  troubles  when  living  near  the 
ocean,  that  no  amount  of  pleasure  to  be  de- 
rived from  water  sports  could  atone  for  these 
drawbacks.  Every  man  should  make  a  certain 
number  of  experiments  in  determining  what 
part  of  the  world,  within  certain  limits,  is  best 
suited  to  his  needs  and  purposes.  People  are 
too  prone  to  settle  down  meekly  wherever  the 
Fates  cast  them.  There  comes  a  time  in  life 
when  almost  every  man  can  (perhaps  by  a  little 
sacrifice)  cut  loose  from  money-making  work 
of  a  routine  character  and  take  some  sort  of 
what  I  should  call  rational  employment  in  the 
open  air,  whether  it  be  fishing,  gardening,  or 
hunting.  When  such  a  time  comes,  why 
should  not  the  man  who  determines  upon  so 
important  a  change,  look  over  the  whole  field? 
We  have  almost  all  conditions  of  climate  and 
soil  within  a  few  days  of  us.  I  have  known 
busy  New  Yorkers  to  cut  loose  from  the  bank 
or  the  business  desk,  and  adopt  life  down  on 


We  Go  A-Fishing  119 

the  Chesapeake  Bay;  others  have  taken  to 
raising  oranges  in  Florida;  some  of  my  own 
relatives  have  been  for  years  engaged  in  vine- 
yards and  wine-making  in  California;  others, 
again,  have  taken  to  small  fruits;  still  others 
have  embarked  in  sheep-raising  in  northern 
Connecticut,  and  made  it  pay.  I  myself,  per- 
haps from  timidity,  have  settled  down  within 
a  few  miles  of  New  York,  for  I  find  a  good 
deal  in  favor  of  this  sheet  of  water  which  con- 
stitutes our  happy  hunting-ground. 

The  common  idea  that  the  Long  Island  coast 
is  simply  one  long  stretch  of  sand,  varied  by 
occasional  patches  of  green  in  the  shape  of  salt 
meadows,  called  marshes  by  city  visitors,  may 
be  true  so  far  as  concerns  the  country  within 
forty  miles  of  New  York.  But  beyond  that 
there  is  a  decided  change.  There  are  actually 
hills  to  be  seen  here  and  there ;  not  very  high 
ones,  but  high  enough  to  be  called  hills.  Most 
persons  who  have  noticed  on  the  maps  the 
words  "Shinnecock  Hills"  wonder  what  kind 
of  country  this  may  be,  for  at  the  point  where 
the  Shinnecock  reservation  is  situated,  Long 
Island  is  but  a  mere  neck  of  land,  at  one  point 


1 20  We  Go  A-Fishing 

not  more  than  a  few  hundred  rods  wide.  The 
Shinnecock  Indians  at  one  time  occupied  this 
part  of  the  island,  and  their  descendants  are 
still  to  be  found.  Along  the  coast,  starting 
from  a  point  forty  miles  from  New  York,  there 
are  hills  to  be  seen  even  far  more  imposing 
than  the  famous  Shinnecock  range,  which  is 
in  reality  merely  a  collection  of  sand  dunes, 
scantily  covered  with  grass  upon  which  sheep 
are  pastured.  The  central  range  of  hills,  or 
the  backbone  of  the  island,  is  quite  an  impos- 
ing line  when  seen  from  the  ocean,  and  even  as 
viewed  from  the  Great  South  Bay  upon  a  misty 
morning  it  gives,  as  I  have  already  said,  quite 
an  air  of  mountainous  wilderness  to  the  back- 
ground. In  former  days,  when  the  Great 
South  Bay  and  Shinnecock  Bay  were  deep 
enough  to  afford  navigation  for  good-sized 
schooners,  it  is  probable  that  all  this  region 
stretching  between  Islip  on  the  west  and  East 
Hampton  on  the  east,  was  the  scene  of  much 
more  animation  the  year  round  than  at  present. 
We  who  resort  here  for  quiet  are  rather  glad 
of  the  change.  Old  ocean  has  helped  us.  It 
has  played  such  tricks  with  this  coast  that  it 


We  Go  A-Fishing  121 

seems  to  be  only  a  matter  of  time  when  these 
bays  will  become  wholly  land-locked.  Fifty 
years  ago  there  was  a  large  outlet  to  the 
ocean  in  the  Great  South  Bay  nearly  opposite 
Patchogue,  whereas  now  the  boats  have  to  go 
twenty  miles  farther  down  the  bay  to  Fire 
Island  inlet  before  they  can  go  out  into  the 
ocean.  Year  after  year,  this  Patchogue  inlet 
grew  narrower  as  each  great  storm  washed  up 
thousands  of  tons  of  sand.  At  last  a  great 
storm  closed  up  the  inlet,  and  it  was  only  when 
the  people  went  to  work  with  shovels  and  carts 
that  any  communication  between  the  bay  and 
the  ocean  was  maintained.  For  several  years 
there  was  a  day  appointed,  usually  in  the 
spring,  when  the  farmers  and  fishermen  within 
ten  miles  of  Patchogue  and  Bellport  were  called 
upon  to  meet  at  the  inlet  and  put  in  a  day's 
work  at  digging.  If  the  response  to  the  call 
was  a  satisfactory  one,  the  work  of  clearing 
out  the  channel  to  a  depth  of  four  or  five  feet 
right  across  the  sand-bar  took  but  a  few  hours ; 
then,  if  there  came  up  no  great  storm,  such  an 
inlet  would  last  all  summer,  giving  plenty  of 
salt  water  to  the  bay.  In  the  autumn  the  first 


122  We  Go  A-Fishing 

great  storms  of  winter  filled  up  the  inlet,  and 
in  the  spring  the  work  had  to  be  done  all  over 
again.  About  twenty-five  years  ago  it  became 
evident  that  the  ocean  was  a  far  better  work- 
man than  the  people  of  Patchogue,  and  was 
making  it  more  and  more  difficult  to  keep  up 
communication  with  the  bay.  As  no  vessels 
of  any  size  could  sail  through  this  artificial 
ditch,  the  only  use  for  it  was  to  give  salt  water 
to  the  bay,  and  this  benefited  only  the  fisher- 
men. So  the  farmers  objected  to  working  for 
this  purpose,  and  the  inlet  was  allowed  to  be- 
come so  choked  up  that  to-day  it  would  cost 
thousands  of  dollars  and  months  of  labor  to  cut 
an  opening  at  the  place  where  half  a  century 
ago  vessels  sailed  through. 

In  Shinnecock  Bay,  twenty-five  miles  farther 
along,  exactly  the  same  experience  has  been 
gone  through  within  the  last  ten  years;  but 
the  people  of  that  neighborhood  still  keep  up 
courage,  and  work  at  the  inlet  every  spring, 
with  the  hope  that  nature  will  some  day  come 
to  their  assistance  and  restore  the  old  chan- 
nels. The  canal,  which  the  government  is  now 
cutting  through  the  neck  of  land  separating 


We  Go  A-Fishing  123 

Shinnecock  and  Peconic  bays,  may  create  a 
current  oceanward  which  will  carry  the  sand 
out  to  sea.  The  reason  for  this  greater  activity 
upon  the  part  of  the  Shinnecock  people  is  that 
without  communication  with  the  ocean,  Shin- 
necock Bay  would  soon  become  a  fresh-water 
and  a  very  unhealthy  pond.  Even  now  it  is 
impossible  to  grow  clams  in  Shinnecock  Bay, 
once  the  best  clamming  spot  along  the  coast, 
because  the  water  is  not  salt  enough,  and  if 
the  canal  does  not  help  matters,  the  time  is 
not  far  distant  when,  notwithstanding  the 
yearly  cleaning-out  of  the  inlet,  all  fish  and 
oysters  will  disappear. 

At  the  upper  end  of  the  Great  South  Bay 
the  effect  of  filling  up  the  inlets  communicat- 
ing with  the  ocean  has  been  felt  chiefly  by  the 
fishermen.  As  there  is  no  communication  with 
the  ocean,  no  sand  of  any  consequence  is  thrown 
into  the  bay  by  winter  storms.  For  the  last 
twenty-five  years  the  bottom  of  the  Great 
South  Bay  has  undergone  no  changes,  and 
the  soundings  made  by  the  government  many 
years  ago  are  still  trustworthy.  In  the  great 
storms  of  winter  the  spray  of  the  ocean  some- 


124  We  Go  A-Fishing 

times  washes  into  the  bay,  rolling  over  the 
sand-bar,  but  the  agitation  of  the  water  in  the 
bay  is  not  sufficient  to  cause  the  sand  to  shift. 
We  have  still  a  depth  of  from  four  to  seven 
feet  right  up  to  the  end  of  the  bay,  with  long 
stretches  of  shallow  flats,  sometimes  covered 
with  grass,  in  which  the  ducks  take  shelter  and 
feed  in  winter.  These  flats  extend  along  the 
sand-bar  from  one  to  two  miles  into  the  bay, 
and  any  one  who  has  sailed  for  a  summer  or 
two  in  the  bay  learns  pretty  well  how  to  keep 
clear  of  them  by  the  looks  of  the  water.  Along 
the  main  shore  there  is  plenty  of  water  for  from 
two  to  three  miles  out  from  the  shore,  and  this 
makes  the  bay  a  superb  sailing-place  for  small 
boats.  As  for  the  fishing  part,  it  has  grown 
less  and  less,  until  to-day  it  is  not  what  might 
be  called  a  good  fishing-ground,  except  within 
a  few  miles  of  Fire  Island  inlet,  where  the 
bluefish  still  run  in  the  right  season.  Perhaps 
the  number  of  fishermen  has  had  something  to 
do  with  the  scarcity  of  fish.  The  fame  of  Fire 
Island  inlet  has  spread  so  far  among  lovers  of 
bluefish  that  not  a  day  passes  from  late  June 
until  late  September  when  there  cannot  be 


We  Go  A-Fishing  125 

found  a  fleet  of  from  twenty  to  two  hundred 
boats  on  the  lookout  for  bluefish.  The  fishing 
industry  of  Babylon  is  entirely  devoted  to 
taking  out  parties  for  bluefishing ;  the  profes- 
sional fisherman  scarcely  professes  to  fish  at 
all.  His  duty  is  to  keep  his  smack  in  order, 
to  furnish  bait  and  lines,  and  to  be  ready  to 
pilot  his  patrons  to  the  best  place  in  the  bay  for 
a  catch.  Whether  fish  are  caught  or  not,  the  fish- 
erman gets  his  dollars,  and  finds  it  more  profit- 
able to  take  people  fishing  than  to  fish  himself. 

Oysters,  of  course,  have  remained  one  of  the 
great  resources  of  the  Great  South  Bay.  The 
famous  Blue  Point,  so  named  because  of  the 
blue  tint  of  the  weeds  which  formerly  covered 
the  point,  still  remains  the  ideal  spot  of  this 
region  for  oyster-dredging,  and  when  the  sum- 
mer visitor  runs  away  frightened  by  the  first 
September  storm,  the  oysterman  takes  off  the 
fancy  trimmings  of  his  boat,  stores  away  the 
awnings,  camp  chairs,  and  cushions,  and  pre- 
pares for  hard  work.  In  reality,  the  first  two 
months  of  oystering  are  what  is  to  me  the 
pleasantest  time  of  the  year.  Once  the  Sep- 
tember gales  have  abated,  the  weather  settles 


1 26  We  Go,  A-Fishing 

down  into  glorious  days,  and  from  early  Octo- 
ber until  Christmas  the  Blue  Point  oysterer  has 
an  existence  which  might  be  envied  by  any 
one  fond  of  outdoor  exercise.  On  such  days  as 
these,  the  bay,  calm  and  peaceful,  is  given  up 
to  its  rightful  owners.  The  summer  visitors 
have  disappeared.  The  smacks  of  the  fisher- 
men have  resumed  their  working  appearance, 
the  duck-shooters  have  begun  to  sound  the 
alarm  along  the  coast,  and  from  sunrise  to  sun- 
set, the  air,  whether  it  comes  from  the  ocean 
or  from  the  pine  woods  of  the  Long  Island 
plains,  is  full  of  a  fragrance  which  cannot  be 
found  in  the  neighborhood  of  great  cities. 
People  talk  about  the  sufferings  of  the  oyster- 
men,  and  we  hear  a  good  deal  about  frozen 
hands,  night  work,  and  perilous  adventures. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  although  I  have  followed 
the  doings  of  the  bay  oystermen  with  consider- 
able interest,  I  have  found  no  evidences  of  ex- 
ceptional hardship.  It  is  cold  work  sometimes, 
but  as  compared  to  the  work  of  a  city  car- 
driver  it  is  sport.  Although  each  oyster  smack 
has  a  comfortable  little  cabin  warmed  by  a 
stove,  it  is  a  common  sight  to  see  the  oyster- 


We  Go  A-Fishing  127 

men  eating  their  dinners  in  the  sunlight  on 
deck  rather  than  keep  to  the  cabin  on  a  bluster- 
ing December  day.  The  worst  that  can  be  said 
of  the  life  of  the  professional  oysterman  is  that 
it  does  not  pay,  and  even  this  may  be  called  in 
question.  The  crew  of  a  smack  devoted  to 
fishing  in  the  bay,  whether  for  "bony-fish"  for 
the  oil  factories,  or  for  oysters,  usually  consists 
of  two  men  and  a  boy ;  the  boy  sails  the  boat, 
while  the  men  attend  to  the  nets  or  the  dredges. 
The  smack  is  worth  from  $600  to  $1200,  ac- 
cording to  size  and  appointment.  I  have 
known  the  profits  of  a  season,  which  begins  in 
June  and  ends  when  the  bay  freezes  over  in 
January,  to  be  $2500  for  one  smack.  The 
fishing  lasts  till  October,  when  the  oystering 
begins.  The  boats  are  usually  owned  by  the 
men  who  sail  them,  and  the  boy  who  goes  as 
sailor  gets  a  percentage  of  the  catch,  whether 
of  fish  or  of  oysters.  One  young  fellow  who 
sailed  in  a  Patchogue  smack  last  summer  got 
$600  as  the  returns  of  his  summer's  work. 

To-day,  as  the  morning  breeze  dies  away 
about  ten  o'clock,  leaving  us  in  the  middle  of 
the  bay,  two  miles  from  land  on  either  side,  it 


128  We  Go  A-Fishing 

seems  hard  to  believe  that  within  a  few  weeks 
the  oystermen  will  be  blowing  on  their  fingers 
and  swinging  their  arms,  and  that  the  duck- 
shooters  will  be  ranging  this  very  spot.  The 
water  is  so  warm  that  it  is  still  full  of  jelly-fish, 
which  the  children  catch  with  a  scalp  net  as 
we  glide  slowly  along.  Half  an  hour  later  the 
breeze  dies  out  entirely,  and  the  boom  swings 
from  one  side  to  the  other,  the  sail  flapping 
idly.  No  amount  of  whistling  brings  a  breeze. 
It  is  hot  and  still.  The  buzzing  of  an  occa- 
sional fly  and  noises  from  the  distant  shore  are 
faintly  heard;  the  barking  of  dogs  and  the 
hammering  of  some  carpenters  are  very  dis 
tinct.  As  the  little  air  moving  comes  from 
the  shore,  we  cannot  hear  the  boom  of  the  surf 
on  the  other  side  of  us.  The  cinder-beds,  our 
fishing-grounds,  are  still  five  miles  away.  By 
watching  the  bottom,  a  few  feet  below  us,  we 
estimate  that  the  boat  is  moving  at  the  rate  of 
one  yard  a  minute,  at  which  pace  we  shall  get 
there  sometime  next  year.  This  is  part  of 
fisherman's  luck,  and  the  man  who  should  feel 
resentment  or  show  impatience  in  such  circum- 
stances has  no  business  to  go  fishing  on  the 


We  Go  A-Fishing  129 

Great  South  Bay,  or  anywhere  else.  We  have 
books  with  us,  we  have  hopes  of  a  breeze  to 
come  and  fish  to  be  caught. 

The  true  fisherman  enjoys  fishing  whether  he 
catches  fish  or  not.  The  love  of  fishing  is 
much  akin  to  the  love  of  gambling;  whether 
you  win  or  lose  there  is  pleasurable  excitement 
about  it.  It  is  the  hope  of  getting  something 
for  nothing,  so  to  speak,  and  your  true  fisher- 
man will  sit  upon  the  edge  of  a  boat  or  the 
string-piece  of  a  wharf  all  day,  content  to  be 
there  and  meditate  upon  what  he  might  have 
caught  or  may  yet  catch.  The  best  fishermen 
I  know  are  the  old  fellows  who  dangle  their  legs 
over  the  edge  of  the  Paris  quays  waiting  for 
goujons  to  bite — little  fish  half  the  size  of  a 
herring;  and  the  catch  of  a  round  half-dozen 
makes  a  red-letter  day  for  the  Seine  fishermen. 
I  remember  a  picture  of  two  of  these  enthusi- 
asts going  home  in  a  pelting  rain  with  an  empty 
creel  between  them.  They  have  been  out  all 
day  and  are  drenched  to  the  skin.  One  says : 
"What  a  glorious  sport  this  fishing  is!  What 
would  life  be  without  it?"  "Yes,  indeed," 
responds  the  other,  "I  shall  never  forget  that 

9 


130  We  Go  A-Fishing 

nibble  as  long  as  I  live!"  This  is  the  true 
spirit  in  which  to  fish. 

I  was  pretty  sure  that  upon  so  clear  and 
cloudless  a  day  there  would  be  wind  after  the 
sun  passed  the  meridian,  and,  sure  enough, 
the  breeze  began  to  come  clear  and  cold  from 
the  ocean  before  one  o'clock.  It  was  a  good 
breeze  to  take  us  home,  and  so  we  determined 
to  push  on  for  a  few  miles  more  for  the  sake  of 
trying  the  bluefish  on  the  cinder-beds.  The 
enjoyment  and  refreshment  of  a  cold  wind  after 
the  sultry  stagnation  under  a  hot  sun  was  re- 
ward enough  for  our  previous  discomfort,  and 
the  spirits  of  the  party  rose  as  the  boom  swung 
over  to  starboard  and  we  started  again  for  Fire 
Island,  headed  down  the  bay.  Luncheon  was 
got  out,  and  we  munched  our  sandwiches  and 
prepared  the  tackle  for  fishing. 

With  the  breeze  a  haze  also  spread  over  the 
horizon.  South  of  us  we  had  the  Fire  Island 
coast,  which  is  here  splendidly  wooded  with 
scrub  oak  and  is  dotted  at  long  intervals  with 
the  summer-houses  of  people  who  care  less  for 
society  than  for  nature.  We  were  sailing 
within  half  a  mile  of  the  island.  Back  of  us 


We  Go  A-Fishing  131 

Patchogue  was  lost  in  the  mist.  The  breeze 
grew  fresher  and  fresher.  The  waves  began  to 
rise,  and  it  was  as  lively  sailing  as  any  one 
could  want  when  we  reached  the  little  fleet  of 
fishing-boats  lying  on  the  cinder-beds  and  cast 
out  our  anchor.  We  were  late  for  the  right 
tide,  but  as  the  crews  of  the  other  boats  re- 
ported the  fishing  to  be  fair,  we  decided  to  try 
it.  With  such  a  breeze  it  would  be  less  than 
a  two  hours'  sail  home,  and  it  was  not  yet  two 
o'clock.  We  should  have  time  for  an  hour's 
fishing,  for  half  an  hour's  run  on  shore  in  order 
to  rest  the  children,  and  then  we  could  make 
sail  for  home  with  a  fresh  wind  at  our  stern  for 
a  ten  miles'  run. 

The  routine  of  our  bluefishing  I  have  de- 
scribed elsewhere.  Fish  are  a  secondary  con- 
sideration. If  we  catch  any,  well  and  good ; 
if  not,  we  have  had  a  pretext  for  sailing  thirty 
miles  and  idling  away  the  day  in  the  most 
profitable  way  imaginable.  "L'Art  de  ne  Rien 
Faire  "  is  after  all  one  of  the  most  difficult  of 
arts.  Nature  and  the  animals  flourish  in  idle- 
ness. But  man  is  supposed  to  deteriorate  when 
not  engaged  in  producing  things,  or  robbing 


132  We  Go  A-Fishing 

his  neighbors  in  the  finesses  of  trade.  If,  be- 
cause of  the  vicious  warp  inherited  from  ances- 
tors who  deified  work  for  its  own  sake,  we  feel 
uncomfortable  at  the  idea  that  we  are  sailing 
the  Great  South  Bay  from  morning  till  night 
with  no  dollars  in  view,  we  may  perhaps  quiet 
our  utilitarian  instincts  by  this  pretext  of  fish- 
ing. We  are  trying  to  obtain  food  for  the 
family;  we  may  not  have  hoed  any  corn  or 
dug  any  potatoes,  or  written  any  articles  which 
editors  may  be  willing  to  pay  for,  but  we  have 
tried  to  provide  food  for  the  household,  and 
our  conscience  is  clear.  It  may  be  said  that 
this  is  but  a  subterfuge,  for  if  I  had  stayed  at 
my  desk  cudgelling  my  brains  for  ideas  of 
merchantable  value,  I  should  have  earned 
enough  money  to  buy  bluefish  for  the  whole 
summer.  This  may  be  true,  and  yet  I  do  not 
admit  the  force  of  any  such  reasoning.  The 
mere  ability  to  earn  enough  money  to  keep 
one's  family  decently  sheltered,  fed,  and 
clothed  is  the  most  ordinary  ability  in  the 
world ;  the  man  who  fails  to  do  it  is  either  ex- 
tremely unfortunate  or  uncommonly  incom- 
petent. He  is  the  exception.  We  should  aim 


We  Go  A-Fishing  133 

to  accomplish  something  more  than  what  every 
one  does.  We  should  endeavor  to  eat  our 
cake  and  keep  it  too.  I  am  led  to  say  all  this 
in  order  to  explain  why  it  was  that  we  did  not 
give  way  to  dejection  when  we  discovered,  after 
a  throw  or  two  of  the  lines,  that  the  tide  had 
turned  and  that  there  were  no  fish  to  be  had. 
The  other  boats  had  begun  to  raise  their 
anchors  and  were  taking  advantage  of  the  fine 
southwesterly  breeze  to  spread  their  wings  for 
home.  It  was  a  question  whether  the  wind 
would  last  until  sundown  or  not.  So  the  fish- 
ing was  abandoned,  and  we  sailed  over  to  the 
wharfs  near  the  oil-factories  for  a  run  on  shore. 
By  the  time  that  the  last  of  the  fishermen 
had  made  sail  for  home,  we  took  up  the  tail  of 
the  procession.  No  more  splendid  breeze  could 
be  desired — straight  from  the  southwest  and 
without  a  flaw.  With  our  centreboard  up  we 
cared  not  for  flats — there  was  enough  water  for 
us, — and  our  course  was  laid  straight  for  home. 
Everything  in  the  east  was  hazy,  and  it  looked 
as  if  rain  might  be  falling  in  the  neighborhood 
of  Montauk  Point,  for  the  sun  was  painting 
resplendent  pictures  upon  the  banks  of  clouds. 


134  We  Go  A-Fishing 

Two  hours  later  we  swung  around  among  our 
little  Patchogue  fleet  and  made  fast  to  shore. 
The  wind  had  gone  down  with  the  sun;  the 
bay  was  like  a  mirror,  and  we  could  hear  the 
oars  of  people  becalmed  a  mile  from  home. 


MY  BEES 

AS  I  have  already  said  elsewhere,  my  bees 
have  contributed  a  few  dollars  a  year  to 
my  income,  and  have  given  me  a  great  many 
pounds  of  honey  and  no  little  amusement. 
Some  five  or  six  years  ago  a  newspaper  para- 
graph concerning  the  large  amount  of  money  to 
be  made  by  raising  bees  and  selling  their  honey 
caught  my  eye,  and  I  had  the  curiosity  to  look 
up  the  only  firm  in  this  part  of  the  country 
which  at  that  time  made  a  business  of  selling 
hives  fitted  out  with  bees.  My  investigation 
resulted  in  the  purchase  of  a  hive  containing  a 
swarm  of  pure  Italian  honey-bees  warranted  to 
do  justice  to  their  reputation  as  indefatigable 
workers,  and  to  make  my  fortune  if  I  looked 
after  them  with  intelligence  and  perseverance. 
The  people  from  whom  I  bought  my  first  hive 
were  full  of  information  as  to  the  vast  amount 
of  honey  and,  of  course,  profit  I  was  to  get 


136  My  Bees 

from  my  investment ;  they  said  nothing  about 
a  vast  number  of  stings.  According  to  the 
rosy  picture  which  was  drawn  of  my  future,  I 
should  merely  have  to  buy  my  hives  and  hire  a 
convenient  place  in  which  to  store  the  honey 
as  it  was  produced  by  the  ton.  I  was  told  that 
any  neighborhood  where  vegetation  throve  was 
good  for  bees,  and  that  an  able-bodied  man 
could  take  care  of  two  hundred  hives  with  ease 
and  live  in  comfort  upon  the  products  of  his 
little  servants.  The  details  of  the  business 
were  said  to  be  easy  to  learn,  and  its  prosecu- 
tion one  long  delight.  In  support  of  this 
story,  I  was  presented  with  several  works  by 
men  who  had  kept  bees  and  were  impelled  from 
the  enthusiasm  which  filled  them  to  tell  the 
world  how  much  money  and  joy  might  be 
found  in  bee-keeping.  One  man  went  so  far 
as  to  give  the  actual  amounts  which  he  had 
made  in  a  few  years,  with  fac-similes  of  the 
checks  he  had  received  in  payment  for  his 
enormous  shipments.  According  to  his  ac- 
count, bee-keeping  was  the  easiest,  pleasantest, 
and  most  profitable  of  all  employments;  all 
the  bee-keeper  had  to  do  was  to  take  out  the 


My  Bees  13? 

honey  from  the  hive  and  sell  it  to  the  mis- 
guided people  who  keep  no  hives  of  their  own. 
Another  little  book  told  of  a  bright  young  city 
man  who  gave  up  the  delights  of  the  theatre  and 
base-ball  matches  to  retire  to  the  country  with  a 
hive  of  bees ;  he  emerged  five  years  later  with 
something  like  a  fortune  made  out  of  honey. 

The  first  supply  was  to  be  the  only  cost 
of  the  enterprise  beyond  that  of  the  hives 
in  which  to  place  other  swarms,  and  the  little 
boxes  which  are  put  in  the  hives  to  receive  the 
honey.  I  was  assured  that  very  few  people 
who  took  hold  of  the  business  gave  it  up  be- 
cause of  the  stings  they  received,  and  that,  if  I 
could  take  the  opinion  of  all  bee-keepers  upon 
the  subject,  I  would  find  that  it  was  virtually  a 
chorus  of  praise  in  honor  of  this  industry,  which 
is  almost  literally  as  old  as  the  hills,  and  yet 
has  been  completely  revolutionized,  turned  up- 
side down,  within  the  last  twenty  years.  For 
centuries  people  had  gone  on  allowing  bees  to 
do  as  they  thought  fit.  Twenty  years  ago  an 
inventive  genius  discovered  that  the  bees  knew 
nothing  about  making  the  most  of  their  time, 
and  were  living  a  life  of  riotous  idleness. 


138  My  Bees 

It  is  some  five  years  since,  thus  induced  to 
consider  the  bee  business  as  something  which  of- 
fered me  exactly  what  I  wanted — a  life  of  ease, 
with  nothing  to  do  and  plenty  of  money, — I 
paid  $15  for  my  hive  stocked  with  bees,  $i  for  a 
veil  to  put  over  my  head,  $2  for  a  pair  of  rubber 
gloves,  and  several  dollars  more  for  various  im- 
plements to  be  used,  as  I  found  out  afterwards, 
in  fighting  the  infuriated  insects.  My  bill  for 
the  original  outfit  was  $20  and  some  cents,  ac- 
cording to  the  accounts  of  the  business,  which 
I  have  kept  with  great  care,  and  which  are  now 
before  me.  During  these  five  years  I  have  had 
an  experience  worth  all  the  money  paid  out, 
and  as  there  may  be  some  other  people  anxious 
for  a  life  of  ease  and  plenty  of  money,  my  ex- 
perience may  not  be  without  interest  and  profit 
to  them.  Seriously,  I  have  not  had  a  bad  time 
of  it,  and  for  the  number  of  hours  and  the 
amount  of  money  which  I  have  devoted  to  my 
bees,  I  am  inclined  to  congratulate  myself  over 
the  result,  and  to  advise  others  to  at  least  make 
the  experiment  of  keeping  a  few  hives.  I  have 
never  thought  of  honey-making  as  anything 
but  the  amusement  of  idle  hours  in  the  coun- 


My  Bees  139 

try,  and  I  first  gave  time  and  thought  to  bee- 
raising  very  much  as  I  might  to  chicken-raising 
or  any  other  hobby  of  the  city  man  who  has 
only  a  few  hours  in  the  country  which  he  does 
not  devote  to  sleep. 

My  first  hive  was  bought  when  I  was  living 
in  the  Orange  Mountains  of  New  Jersey,  about 
twenty  miles  from  New  York.  It  arrived  by 
express,  the  top  of  the  hive  covered  with  wire- 
cloth,  through  which  the  bees  peered  rather 
curiously  but  not  at  all  viciously.  The  direc- 
tions were  to  take  off  the  wire-cloth  as  carefully 
as  possible,  and  put  on  a  large  wooden  cover. 
As  the  construction  of  a  modern  beehive  is 
radically  different  from  that  of  the  old-fashioned 
straw  one,  I  may  as  well  say  a  few  words  about 
it.  The  essential  part  of  a  modern  hive  con- 
sists of  a  wooden  box  eighteen  inches  wide, 
two  feet  long,  and  about  fourteen  inches  deep. 
This  box  contains  from  eight  to  ten  "frames," 
which  are  filled  up  with  a  sheet  of  comb  of  the 
average  thickness.  These  sheets  of  comb, 
sometimes  partly  filled  with  honey  by  the 
bees,  hang  side  by  side  in  the  hive,  and  usually 
occupy  the  whole  of  the  box.  It  is  possible  to 


140  My  Bees 

lift  out  any  one  of  the  frames  and  see  exactly 
what  is  going  on  upon  the  sheet  of  comb  it 
contains.  The  same  sheet  may  be  partly  given 
up  to  honey,  or  may  contain  young  bees  in  the 
various  stages  of  growth  from  the  egg  to  the 
live  bee.  In  the  spring  there  is  usually  very 
little  honey  left  in  the  hive,  the  bees  having 
eaten  it  all  during  the  winter,  and  filled  up  the 
empty  cells  with  eggs,  fast  becoming  bees. 
The  frames  of  the  hives  are  not  often  disturbed 
by  the  beginner  in  bee-hiving,  since  the  bees 
are  apt  to  resent  this  investigation  into  their 
private  apartments.  Above  the  box  containing 
the  frames  comes  a  cover,  which  is  sufficiently 
high  to  allow  a  number  of  honey-boxes  to  be 
placed  right  on  top  of  the  frames.  These 
honey-boxes  are  easily  contained  in  a  large 
case,  which  enables  them  all  to  be  put  on  or 
lifted  off  together.  In  this  case  there  are  from 
twenty  to  thirty  boxes  to  be  filled  by  the  bees. 
In  some  hives  boxes  for  honey  are  also  placed 
in  the  lower  part  of  the  hive  along  the  outside 
walls,  when  the  bees  will  often  fill  them  in 
preference  to  going  up  into  the  cover  of  the 
hives. 


My  Bees  141 

In  the  old-fashioned  hives  it  was  necessary  to 
kill  the  bees  by  suffocating  them  with  sulphur 
smoke  before  the  honey  could  be  cut  out  of 
the  hive.  In  the  new  hives,  if  I  may  so  call  the 
hives  which  date  from  twenty  years  ago,  the 
bees  are  never  much  disturbed  when  honey  is 
taken  out  of  the  hive ;  the  idea  of  killing  bees 
in  order  to  get  honey  would  now  be  considered 
atrocious  barbarism.  The  modern  method  of 
taking  the  honey-boxes  out  of  the  hives  is 
simply  to  drive  the  bees  from  the  boxes  down 
to  their  own  frames  by  the  use  of  the  smoke 
of  rags,  when  the  boxes  may  be  lifted  off  with- 
out injuring  the  bees.  About  five  hundred 
patents  have  been  taken  out  within  the  last 
twenty  years  for  improved  beehives,  and  the 
farmers  in  some  parts  of  the  country  have  been 
so  annoyed  by  the  claims  of  people  who  pre- 
tend to  own  patent  rights  upon  hives  which 
they  had  puchased,  that  the  rapacity  of  these 
hive  inventors  has  driven  many  of  them  out  of 
the  business.  The  moment  a  man  bought  what 
seemed  to  be  a  sensible  and  cheap  hive,  he  was 
called  upon  to  pay  royalties  to  some  one  who 
claimed  the  patent.  The  number  of  different 


H2  My  Bees 

hives,  each  type  having  its  champions,  is  a  very 
large  one,  and  almost  every  well-known  bee- 
keeper has  left  a  hive  of  his  own  devising  which 
is  expected  to  do  something  that  other  hives 
will  not  do.  It  has  been  found  by  long  ex- 
perience that  bees  are  very  accommodating  in- 
sects, and  will  adapt  themselves  to  almost  any 
variety  of  home,  provided  it  is  sufficiently  dark 
and  secure  from  the  attacks  of  animals. 

My  first  year's  experience  consisted  in  open- 
ing the  hives  every  day  or  two,  after  suffocat- 
ing all  the  bees  with  five  times  the  necessary 
amount  of  smoke,  and  studying  what  was  going 
on  inside.  This  effectually  prevented  the  bees 
from  making  any  honey,  but  it  gave  me  some 
insight  into  their  habits,  and  a  very  perfect 
knowledge  of  the  treatment  of  stings.  As  to 
honey,  the  first  year  was  only  a  partial  success. 
The  very  day  after  the  beehive  arrived  and  had 
been  put  in  place,  I  put  over  the  frames  every 
honey-box  that  came  with  the  hive,  and  watched 
for  the  result.  In  one  of  my  books  it  is  re- 
corded that  a  swarm  of  bees  will  sometimes 
bring  in  as  much  as  twenty  pounds  of  honey 
in  one  day ;  my  bees  had  evidently  never  read 


My  Bees  143 

this  book.  I  could  not  find  that  they  brought 
in  an  ounce  unless  for  their  own  use.  After 
some  weeks  of  anxious  watching  and  disap- 
pointment, I  consulted  a  neighbor,  who  knew 
somebody  else  whose  brother  had  once  had  a 
beehive,  and  in  the  end  I  discovered  that  an 
old  farmer  ten  miles  off  had  some  bees,  and 
actually  got  some  honey  from  them  every  year. 
I  went  to  see  him,  and  found  out  that  in  that 
part  of  Jersey,  at  least,  bees  do  very  little  in 
the  way  of  honey-making  from  the  end  of  June 
until  the  end  of  August;  moreover,  that  if  I 
want  to  get  them  to  make  honey  in  the  little 
boxes  which  are  sold  by  the  grocers,  I  should 
have  to  encourage  them  by  placing  in  each  box 
a  little  sheet  of  wax  marked  with  the  comb  in- 
dentations. These  wax  "starters  "  are  the  in- 
vention of  a  German  bee-keeper.  I  also  learned 
that,  in  order  to  get  the  bees  to  do  their  whole 
duty,  a  modern  device,  likewise  the  invention 
of  a  German,  known  as  an  "extractor,"  would 
be  necessary. 

The  extractor  is  simply  a  tin  barrel  contain- 
ing a  frame  which  can  be  made  to  whirl  around 
upon  a  central  pivot.  Into  this  frame  the  hive 


H4  My  Bees 

combs,  when  they  contain  honey,  are  placed, 
and  made  to  revolve  so  rapidly  that  the  honey 
is  forced  out  of  the  comb  by  centrifugal  action 
and  trickles  down  to  the  bottom  of  the  ex- 
tractor. Before  bees  begin  to  store  honey  in 
the  little  boxes  in  the  top  of  the  hive,  they 
first  fill  up  such  parts  of  the  large  frames  as  are 
not  used  by  them  for  rearing  young;  and  the 
motion  of  the  extractor  is  so  regulated  that  the 
eggs  and  young  bees  are  not  thrown  out  with 
the  honey.  The  comb  having  been  emptied  of 
the  honey,  the  frame  is  replaced  in  the  hive, 
and  the  bees,  finding  their  stores  gone  and 
fearing  starvation,  will  go  to  work  again  with 
the  energy  of  despair.  Some  bee-keepers  use 
their  bees  entirely  for  producing  this  extracted 
honey,  and  never  make  any  box-honey,  as  the 
honey  in  the  comb  is  called.  The  sale  of  ex- 
tracted honey,  put  up  in  bottles,  is  naturally 
larger  than  that  of  box-honey,  as  it  can  be  kept 
in  better  order  and  for  a  longer  time ;  but  its 
price  is  less  by  several  cents  a  pound,  and  the 
temptation  to  adulterate  it  with  sugar  and 
water  has  given  it  a  bad  reputation  in  some 
communities.  As  yet  no  one  has  found  a 


My  Bees  145 

method  of  making  artificial  comb  and  filling  it 
with  artificial  honey.  A  dealer  in  honey  said 
to  me  one  day:  "These  rascals  who  adulterate 
honey  with  glucose  are  ruining  our  business  in 
extracted  honey.  Fortunately,  they  cannot 
imitate  comb-honey.  It  has  been  tried,  but 
does  not  succeed;  I  would  give  $10,000  to  find 
a  good  method  of  doing  it."  So  much  for 
business  virtue.  The  only  way  in  which 
adulteration  comes  into  play  with  comb-honey 
is  in  the  practice  of  feeding  the  bees  upon 
glucose  or  maple-sugar  and  water,  which  mix- 
ture they,  of  course,  store  up  in  the  boxes  and 
"cap"  over  in  the  usual  way,  as  if  it  was  genu- 
ine honey  from  flowers. 

The  internal  economy  of  a  beehive,  with  its 
thousands  of  workers,  its  drones,  and  its  one 
queen,  has  been  described  so  often  in  print 
that  I  need  not  waste  space  upon  it.  A  good 
beehive,  well-filled,  contains  about  25,000  bees. 
My  first  beehive  had  about  5000  when  it  came 
to  me,  but  reached  the  maximum  before  the 
end  of  the  autumn.  When  the  queen  lays 
eggs,  she  does  so  at  the  rate  of  several  hundred 
a  day,  and  in  less  than  three  weeks  the  bees 


146  My  Bees 

from  these  eggs  are  flying  around.  Much  has 
been  said  of  late  as  to  the  superiority  of  the 
Italian  bee,  which  carries  three  yellow  bands 
upon  its  body,  over  the  native  black  bee,  and 
as  high  as  $50  have  been  paid  for  a  good  Italian 
queen.  Means  have  been  devised  of  so  pack- 
ing queens  that  they  often  come  from  Europe 
by  mail,  and  are  sent  all  over  the  country  in 
the  same  way.  The  average  price  for  a  good 
queen  is  at  present  one  dollar.  At  the  end  of 
my  first  summer's  experience  in  the  bee  busi- 
ness, and  after  allowing  my  bees  to  take  care 
of  themselves  for  the  six  weeks  from  the  middle 
of  September  to  the  end  of  October,  I  found 
that  I  had  twelve  pounds  of  honey  stored  up 
in  boxes,  and  that  the  nine  frames  of  the  lower 
part  of  the  hive  were  completely  full  of  honey 
and  weighed  eight  pounds  apiece.  I  took  out 
three  of  the  frames  which  were  filled  and  left 
in  six  for  the  winter,  thus  giving  the  bees 
nearly  fifty  pounds  of  honey  to  live  upon. 
The  preparation  for  winter  in  Jersey  is  simply 
to  take  off  the  top  and  side  boxes,  filling  up 
the  void  with  sawdust ;  I  left  the  hive  out-of- 
doors,  and  I  have  followed  the  same  plan  in 


My  Bees  147 

Connecticut  with  success.  In  northern  New 
England  and  in  the  northwestern  States,  where 
the  thermometer  often  falls  below  zero,  it  is 
customary  to  winter  the  hives  in  cellars. 

After  a  pretty  severe  winter  I  discovered  in 
the  first  sunshiny  days  of  March  that  my  bees 
were  coming  out  of  the  hive  freely,  and  taking 
a  warm  day  for  investigation,  I  lifted  out  a 
frame  to  find  it  full  of  "brood,"  as  the  bees 
not  yet  out  of  the  cell  are  called.  As  the 
spring  advanced  the  hive  became  more  and 
more  lively,  and  when  the  willows  blossomed 
the  noise  of  my  bees  could  be  heard  fifty  feet 
away ;  apparently  I  had  twice  as  many  bees  as 
in  the  autumn,  and  I  looked  forward  to  a  tre- 
mendous crop  of  honey.  Authorities  upon 
the  bee  business  say  that  the  average  product 
of  a  good  hive  ought  to  be  sixty  pounds  of 
honey  a  year.  Some  bee-keepers  boast  of 
having  obtained  one  hundred  pounds,  and  the 
farmer  who  still  keeps  bees  in  a  common 
wooden  box,  provided  with  no  movable  frames, 
is  satisfied  with  twenty-five  or  thirty  pounds. 
May  came,  and  I  filled  my  hives  with  boxes 
fitted  out  with  wax  "starters."  The  hive  ap- 


148  My  Bees 

peared  to  be  crowded  with  bees,  so  much  so 
that  early  in  May  a  tremendous  swarm  came 
out  one  day,  and  after  hanging  to  a  cedar  tree 
for  some  hours,  went  off  to  find  new  quarters ; 
I  was  away  in  the  city  and  lost  it.  Swarming 
is  nothing  more  or  less  than  a  sign  that  the  hive 
is  too  small  for  the  family.  The  queen  goes 
off  with  a  certain  number  of  the  bees  to  find  a 
new  home,  but  not  without  leaving  things  in 
such  a  state  that  a  new  queen  will  be  hatched 
out  in  a  few  days.  Within  ten  days  of  the  loss 
of  my  first  swarm,  another  one  appeared  on  a 
Sunday,  and  I  found  it  without  difficulty  hang- 
ing to  a  small  cedar  tree.  I  put  the  cover  on 
an  old  soap-box,  and  bored  two  or  three  holes 
in  one  side  of  the  box  with  an  auger.  Then  I 
put  it  on  the  ground  near  my  first  hive,  care- 
fully cut  off  the  small  limb  upon  which  my 
swarm  had  clustered,  and  laid  the  black  mass 
down  in  front  of  the  soap-box,  within  an  inch 
or  two  of  the  auger-holes.  The  bees  made  a 
straight  line  for  these  openings,  tumbling  over 
one  another  in  their  anxiety  to  get  in.  In  half 
an  hour  the  last  one  entered.  The  next  day  I 
bought  an  empty  hive  in  town.  Upon  opening 


My  Bees  149 

my  soap-box  to  get  the  bees  into  the  new  hive, 
which  I  did  within  forty-eight  hours,  I  found 
that  they  had  already  begun  making  comb  and 
the  queen  had  begun  to  lay  eggs.  I  made  the 
transfer  without  difficulty.  During  this  second 
year  my  two  hives  gave  me  between  them 
forty-seven  pounds  of  honey  in  boxes,  and 
thirty-two  pounds  of  honey  which  I  cut  from 
the  frames.  I  found  that  the  best  honey 
season  in  that  part  of  the  country  was  not  in 
the  spring,  but  in  the  late  autumn,  the  golden- 
rod  affording  most  of  the  supply.  At  the  close 
of  the  second  summer  I  prepared  the  bees  as 
usual  and  left  them  out  in  the  snow  for  the 
winter. 

In  May  following  I  increased  my  number  of 
hives  to  four  by  taking  out  half  of  the  bees  in 
each  of  my  two  hives  and  putting  them  into 
new  hives.  The  process  is  too  complicated  for 
description  here;  every  bee-book  gives  a  de- 
tailed account  of  how  to  do  it.  I  succeeded 
perfectly.  From  my  two  old  hives  came  a 
swarm  apiece,  both  of  which  I  succeeded  in 
catching.  This  gave  me  six  hives.  The  third 
year  resulted  in  a  harvest  of  120  pounds  in 


150  My  Bees 

boxes  and  90  pounds  in  the  frames.  The  result 
was  not  so  good  as  it  might  have  been  had 
I  watched  the  hives  carefully  enough  to  deter- 
mine exactly  when  the  frames  ought  to  have 
been  emptied  of  their  contents  by  the  use  of  an 
extractor.  I  have  never  taken  the  trouble  to 
get  an  extractor  at  all,  preferring  to  work  en- 
tirely for  box-honey.  Also,  I  did  not  take  out 
my  boxes  as  fast  as  they  were  filled,  and  this 
had  something  to  do  with  the  work  of  the  bees, 
who  do  their  best  when  starvation  threatens 
them.  For  the  fourth  year,  inasmuch  as  six 
hives  were  simply  flooding  me  and  my  neigh- 
bors with  honey,  I  neglected  to  hive  the  swarms 
at  all,  and  simply  let  them  go,  knowing  that 
more  honey  would  mean  a  serious  amount  of 
time  taken  in  looking  after  the  hives  and  in 
selling  the  honey.  The  last  year  has  given  me 
no  less  than  280  pounds  of  honey  in  boxes  and 
160  pounds  in  the  frames.  Half  of  this  honey 
has  been  sold  at  an  average  price  of  fourteen 
cents  a  pound,  which  is  about  two  thirds  of 
the  price  obtained  for  it  by  the  local  grocer  to 
whom  I  sold  it. 

To  sum  up  the  results  of  my  experiments  in 


My  Bees  151 

bee-culture,  I  have  six  hives  completely  filled 
with  bees  and  ready  for  the  winter,  which  have 
cost  me  in  all  $46,  including  the  original  out- 
lay. During  the  five  years  I  have  spent  exactly 
eighty  cents  in  food  for  the  bees;  when  the 
spring  is  very  late,  they  sometimes  require  to 
be  helped  along  with  a  little  candy.  I  estimate 
the  value  of  my  plant  at  $100,  and  my  honey 
which  remains  for  the  winter's  consumption  at 
$30.  The  time  necessary  to  look  after  and 
take  care  of  six  hives  is  certainly  not  more  than 
three  hours  a  week,  and  the  number  of  stings 
received  depends  upon  the  caution  and  skill  of 
the  bee-keeper.  I  have  found  that  it  is  not 
necessary  to  be  stung  at  all,  and  that  even 
when  a  few  bees  do  manage  to  sting,  it  is  not 
a  very  serious  matter.  Any  man  who  wants  a 
most  interesting  hobby  can  find  no  end  of  in- 
terest and  some  honey  by  getting  a  beehive 
and  putting  it  on  the  roof,  even  if  he  lives  in 
the  city.  Some  years  ago  one  of  our  down- 
town janitors,  who  kept  a  small  apiary  on  the 
top  of  a  big  office  building,  had  to  give  it  up 
because  a  neighboring  candy-shop  on  Broadway 
complained  of  the  clouds  of  bees  which  the 


152  My  Bees 

candy  attracted.  With  judicious  management 
one  hive  ought  to  give  enough  honey  for  a 
family,  and  to  require  almost  no  attention. 
Bees  will  fly  four  miles  in  search  of  honey,  so 
that  our  New  York  City  bees  get  most  of  their 
supplies  in  Jersey  or  over  on  Long  Island. 
At  one  time  a  few  years  ago  California  honey 
seemed  about  to  drive  our  Eastern  bees  out  of 
the  business.  Since  then,  however,  there  has 
been  a  reaction,  and  our  honey  is  preferred  for 
its  flavor,  and  higher  prices  are  paid  for  it. 
One  bee-keeper  of  Cherry  Valley,  New  York, 
exports  yearly  to  England  $25,000  worth  of 
honey  raised  by  his  own  bees.  I  am  now 
about  to  move  my  bees  down  to  my  Long 
Island  home,  having  found  that  there  are  thriv- 
ing apiaries  in  the  neighborhood  and  plenty  of 
buckwheat  and  golden-rod  for  their  sustenance. 
If  I  cannot  get  several  hundred  pounds  of 
honey  every  year  to  offset  my  grocery  bill  I 
shall  be  disappointed. 


"DEAD   TREES   LOVE   THE   FIRE" 

1AM  sorry  for  the  man  who  cannot  get 
pleasure  out  of  a  wood  fire.  One  of  the 
promising  signs  of  the  times,  according  to  my 
view,  is  the  reappearance  of  the  open  hearth  in 
most  of  our  modern  country-houses.  If  the 
aesthetic  movement  in  house-building  leaves  us 
no  other  memento  of  its  passage  than  the  big 
open  hearth  and  the  andirons  of  our  fore- 
fathers, we  can  afford  to  be  thankful,  for  its 
sins  are  as  nothing  as  compared  to  this  bless- 
ing. Twenty  years  ago,  one  could  find  all  over 
the  country  noble  old  houses  in  which  the  big 
fireplace  had  been  bricked  up  in  order  to  sub- 
stitute a  grate  for  coal,  or,  what  is  worse,  a 
pipe-hole  for  a  stove.  With  the  better  senti- 
ment of  the  last  few  years,  the  fortunate  people 
who  own  such  houses  have  had  the  bricks  torn 
down  and  the  old  andirons  rescued  from  the 
attic.  At  my  own  fireside  I  have  a  pair  of 


154    ''Dead  Trees  Love  the  Fire" 

andirons  that  have  been  in  use  in  the  family 
for  more  than  a  hundred  and  fifty  years,  and 
it  is  no  small  pleasure  to  dream  of  the  people, 
long  since  dead  and  gone,  who  have  watched 
the  flames  reflected  in  those  burnished  brass 
relics  of  the  olden  time.  The  man  who  has 
not  learned  to  love  a  log  fire  has  missed  one  of 
the  comforts  of  life;  it  is  the  love  of  a  fire 
which  has  kept  me  from  moving  to  Florida  or 
some  country  where  vegetation  and  gardens 
flourish  the  year  round.  Fond  as  I  am  of 
working  among  growing  things,  and  eagerly  as 
I  look  forward  year  after  year  to  the  first  dan- 
delion, I  cannot  bear  the  idea  of  losing  my 
noble  blaze  and  the  peculiar  odor  which  a  log 
fire,  especially  of  pine  wood,  gives  to  a  room 
when  the  winter  blast  outside  sends  an  occa- 
sional whiff  of  smoke  and  flame  down  the 
chimney.  Along  with  the  petty  miseries  of 
life  in  large  cities  I  should  be  inclined  to  place 
the  absence  of  a  wood  fire,  for  even  if  there  is 
a  big  fireplace,  which  is  not  always  the  case  in 
a  city  house  of  the  ordinary  type,  wood  is  too 
dear  to  allow  of  its  use  as  I  understand  it.  I 
want  a  fire  of  logs  a  foot  through  and  four  feet 


"Dead  Trees  Love  the  Fire"     155 

long,  which  burns  from  morning  till  late  at 
night,  which  throws  out  light  enough  to  do 
without  lamps  until  the  dinner-bell  rings,  and 
I  am  sure  that  the  children  who  grow  up  with 
the  remembrance  of  that  firelight  hour  before 
their  bedtime  will  be  the  better  for  it.  It  will 
inculcate  in  them  a  love  of  something  healthy, 
spiritually  and  physically.  Thoreau  says: 
"Dead  trees  love  the  fire." 

Of  all  the  woods  that  we  burn  upon  our  big 
hearth  in  winter,  the  balsam  pine  knots  are  the 
most  precious,  because  they  send  out  an  aro- 
matic odor  through  the  room  somewhat  akin  to 
that  of  sandalwood.  Often,  when  the  gale 
does  not  send  us  a  whiff  of  smoke  backing 
down  the  chimney,  I  take  a  pine  knot  out  of 
the  fire  with  the  tongs  and  wave  it  through  the 
room  for  the  sake  of  getting  that  peculiar  scent, 
which  has  always  seemed  full  of  medicinal 
properties.  In  order  to  get  pine  knots  of  the 
kind  I  want,  we  make  two  or  three  trips  every 
summer  to  a  wooded  headland  within  six  miles 
of  us,  where  for  a  trifle  the  owner  has  given  me 
the  privilege  of  cutting  down  a  Jot  of  old  pines 
that  are  fit  for  nothing  but  firewood  or  fence 


156    "Dead  Trees  Love  the  Fire" 

posts.  These  firewood  expeditions  are  hailed 
with  delight  by  the  children,  because  each  one 
constitutes  a  sort  of  picnic  for  them.  Yester- 
day was  one  of  our  firewood  days,  and  we  got 
off  by  a  glorious  morning  soon  after  seven 
o'clock,  taking,  of  course,  all  the  children  and 
a  friend  with  us.  As  we  marched  down  to  the 
boat,  our  axes,  fishing-poles,  and  oars  over  our 
shoulders,  we  met  the  first  stage  starting  from 
our  little  hotel  for  the  railroad  station,  full  of 
unfortunate  business  men  bound  to  New  York 
for  another  week's  heat,  worry,  fatigue,  and 
money.  I  suppose  that  every  one  of  them 
hoped  to  make  at  least  one  hundred  dollars 
by  the  week's  work,  for  life  is  expensive  when 
one  has  a  large  family  and  boards  at  the  coun- 
try inn.  That  would  be  about  fifteen  dollars  a 
day.  I  was  going  to  earn  enough  firewood,  or 
rather  enough  pine  knots,  to  give  a  balsamic 
scent  to  our  fires  for  half  the  winter.  Probably 
I  could  have  hired  a  man  to  go  and  do  the 
work  for  me  and  bring  back  more  wood  than  I 
should  require,  all  for  three  or  four  dollars.  If 
money  is  the  object  of  life,  then  my  conscience 
ought  to  prick  me  to  the  quick  as  we  nod  good- 


"Dead  Trees  Love  the  Fire"    157 

bye  to  the  money-makers  and  keep  on  down  to 
the  bay.  There  is  but  little  breeze  stirring, 
scarcely  enough  to  send  us  along.  Neverthe- 
less, up  goes  the  sail,  the  children  throwing 
aboard  their  baskets  and  bags  containing  the 
luncheon,  and  we  cast  off,  prepared  for  a  good 
day's  outing. 

It  sometimes  occurs  to  me  whether  there 
may  not  be  such  a  thing  as  the  cultivation  of 
idleness — whether  the  love  of  idleness  does  not 
grow  by  idleness.  Many  people  have  told  me 
that  the  normal  man  needs  to  work  in  order  to 
be  healthy  and  happy,  and  by  work  they  mean 
money-making  of  some  kind.  This  giving  a 
whole  day  to  going  after  a  quarter  of  a  cord  of 
pine  knots  would  be  looked  upon  as  a  peculiarly 
vicious  idleness  because  of  the  specious  attempt 
to  dissimulate.  I  remember  many  years  ago, 
when  quite  a  young  man,  that  chance  threw 
me  out  of  business  for  several  months,  and  as 
it  happened  I  employed  most  of  my  time  in 
stripping  a  superb  orchard  of  its  apples  and 
barrelling  them  for  sale  in  the  city.  I  forget 
exactly  what  the  venture  netted  me  in  money. 
The  apples  were  going  to  waste  and  I  invested 


158    "Dead  Trees  Love  the  Fire" 

the  necessary  money  in  empty  barrels  and 
freight  charges.  The  work,  I  did  myself,  be- 
ginning before  breakfast  and  stopping  when  it 
grew  too  dark  to  tell  a  good  apple  from  a  bad 
one.  Then  I  went  back  to  routine  work  at  my 
own  profession.  But  in  after  years  the  memory 
of  that  apple  picking  became  a  delight.  I 
often  spoke  of  it  to  friends,  only  to  be  told 
that  no  one  but  the  laziest  of  men  would  think 
of  wasting  months  in  an  apple  orchard.  Per- 
haps as  a  business  investment  such  work  might 
pay  the  wages  of  a  day  laborer,  but  it  was  un- 
worthy of  a  man  who  could  earn  ten  or  twenty 
dollars  a  day  by  writing  newspaper  articles  or 
trading  in  lead  pipe  or  leather.  Moreover,  I 
was  assured  that  had  I  kept  on  for  a  few 
months  longer  at  such  work,  it  would  have  filled 
me  with  profound  discontent  and  a  wild  desire 
to  get  back  to  the  city  at  any  cost.  I  was  as- 
sured that  for  any  man  above  the  rustic  lout, 
the  country  and  all  its  occupations  would  be  in- 
tolerable except  as  a  recreation  for  a  few  weeks 
of  the  year,  unless  there  was  plenty  of  money 
wherewith  to  live  a  life  of  absolute  idleness  and 
watch  others  work.  It  has  always  been  taken 


"Dead  Trees  Love  the  Fire"     159 

for  granted  by  these  good  friends  of  mine  that 
this  is  so  self-evident  as  to  require  no  argu- 
ment. The  man  who  wants  to  earn  bread  and 
butter  for  his  family  must  work  in  the  city. 
Yet  all  these  years  I  have  retained  a  sneaking 
fondness  for  the  belief  that  years  of  work  in  an 
apple  orchard  might  not  result  disastrously  for 
me  or  mine.  I  recall  the  fact  that  during  those 
three  months  I  was  never  better  in  health,  that 
I  never  took  greater  pleasure  in  my  books  and 
papers,  that  I  never  looked  upon  life  with 
more  satisfaction.  And  this  accidental  taste 
of  country  life  at  a  profit  of  a  dollar  or  two  a 
day,  a  small  sum  as  compared  to  my  city  earn- 
ings, had  great  influence  in  my  determination 
to  cut  loose  from  the  city  for  a  large  part  of 
the  year. 

To  come  back  to  the  Great  South  Bay  it  was 
as  smooth  as  a  mill-pond  as  we  made  sail  for  our 
headland,  looming  up  cool  and  shady  to  the 
eastward.  The  water  was  so  clear  beneath  us 
that  each  patch  of  oysters  could  be  distinguished 
on  the  bottom.  Our  friend  M.,  whom  we  had 
along  with  us,  and  to  whom  I  sang  the  praises 


160    "  Dead  Trees  Love  the  Fire  " 

of  a  pine-knot  fire,  suggested  that  if  every  one 
took  to  wood  fires  and  burned  up  a  dozen 
cords  of  wood  in  the  winter,  as  we  did,  wood 
would  become  exorbitantly  dear,  and  none  but 
millionaires  would  be  able  to  afford  it.  It  is 
said  that  it  takes  the  wood  of  five  square  miles 
every  year  to  furnish  matches  for  the  world, 
the  daily  consumption  in  this  country  reaching 
ten  matches  per  head  for  every  man,  woman, 
and  child.  And  about  once  a  year  the  papers 
contain  articles  warning  the  people  that  our 
forests  are  disappearing,  never  to  grow  again. 
This  sort  of  talk  is  rather  lost  upon  any  one 
who  lives  down  on  Long  Island  anywhere  be- 
yond Babylon,  for  here  there  are  tracts  of 
country  where  one  can  walk  for  miles  and  miles 
without  meeting  a  soul  or  seeing  a  house,  and 
yet  covered  with  a  growth  of  excellent  fire- 
wood, untouched  almost  from  generation  to 
generation.  Yet  we  are  within  seventy-five 
miles  of  the  greatest  city  on  the  continent. 
If  New  York  City  should  ever  take  to  wood 
fires,  Long  Island  can  grow  wood  just  as  well 
as  cabbages.  Even  now,  when  our  Long 
Island  woods  have  been  shamefully  neglected 


"Dead  Trees  Love  the  Fire"     161 

for  generations,  no  one  ever  thinking  of  re- 
planting a  forest  that  has  been  cut  down  or 
burned  up,  good  firewood,  of  pine  or  oak,  can 
be  bought  for  three  dollars  a  cord,  cut  and  de- 
livered. A  cord  of  wood  will  give  a  roaring 
blaze  every  night  for  a  month.  If  you  cut  the 
wood  yourself,  as  I  do,  you  can  have  it  almost 
for  nothing.  There  may  come  a  time  when 
wood  will  become  scarce  in  this  neighborhood, 
but  it  will  not  be  in  my  day  or  in  the  day  of 
the  children  whom  I  am  teaching  to  look  upon 
a  blazing  hearth  as  an  essential  feature  of  home. 
By  that  time,  man  will  probably  get  his  heat 
from  stored-up  sunlight,  or  from  electricity 
furnished  by  the  rush  of  the  tides  or  the  sweep 
of  the  winds. 

As  we  have  a  good  hour's  sail  before  us.  one 
of  the  party  reads  out  Thoreau's  chapter  on 
firewood,  a  wonderful  study  which  rather 
dwarfs  all  attempts  to  say  much  upon  the  same 
subject.  This  is  what  I  call  a  happiness  be- 
yond the  making  of  any  number  of  dollars. 
Here  we  are  in  our  staunch,  safe  boat,  gliding 
along  with  just  enough  sea  breeze  to  take  us 
to  that  haven  where  we  would  be,  my  wife  and 


1 62    " Dead  Trees  Love  the  Fire" 

children  finding  health  and  spirits  in  it,  a  few 
books  and  magazines,  and  the  prospect  of 
several  hours  of  hard,  healthy  work  in  the 
woods  before  we  make  sail  for  home  as  the 
sun  goes  down.  The  boom  of  the  surf  is 
the  only  sound  that  comes  to  us  as  we  reach 
the  middle  of  the  bay  and  head  straight  for  the 
little  half-rotten  dock  which  is  all  that  is  left 
of  some  improvements  made  years  ago  by  a 
company  of  speculators  who  expected  to  estab- 
lish a  summer  resort  at  the  point  we  are  steer- 
ing for.  Away  to  the  north  of  us  a  puff  of 
steam  or  smoke  shows  where  the  locomotive  is 
dragging  those  poor  wretches  off  to  their  daily 
treadmill.  How  very  far  away  all  such  life 
seems !  If  it  were  not  for  the  daily  newspapers, 
I  should  almost  forget  that  there  were  so  many 
miserable  beings  grinding  out  their  few  years 
of  existence  with  so  utter  a  disregard  of  the 
essential  facts  in  the  case.  That  puff  of  smoke 
is  the  last  reminder  of  civilization  that  we  shall 
have  during  the  day  before  we  sight  our  village 
again.  As  the  last  line  of  Thoreau's  chapter 
is  read,  the  boat  swings  round  into  the  breeze 
and  Arthur  jumps  ashore  and  makes  us  fast, 


"Dead  Trees  Love  the  Fire"    163 

while  we  gather  up  our  implements  of  work. 
The  shore  here  presents  a  picture  not  unusual 
at  this  part  of  the  bay.  For  three  or  four 
hundred  feet  from  the  water  there  is  a  meadow 
filled  with  low  bushes  and  blackberry  vines  of 
the  creeping  type.  Then  comes  a  rise  in  the 
ground,  and  a  plateau  stetches  away  to  the 
north,  covered  with  a  heavy  growth  of  trees. 
The  spot  is  a  superb  one  for  a  big  hotel  or  a  col- 
ony of  cottages,  and  undoubtedly  it  would  long 
ago  have  been  used  for  this  purpose  but  for  the 
distance  from  the  railroad;  it  is  a  five-mile 
drive  to  the  nearest  railway  station,  and  that 
would  be  a  fatal  waste  of  time  to  any  business 
man.  One  of  the  reasons  given  for  the  success 
of  the  big  hotel  at  Babylon  is  that  it  stands  so 
near  the  railroad  that  the  New  Yorker  can  step 
from  his  train  to  the  piazza,  of  the  hotel. 

The  shore  presents  this  morning  a  beautiful 
picture  of  absolute  calm.  At  nine  o'clock  no- 
thing is  heard,  as  we  stand  on  the  little  wharf 
and  survey  the  scene,  but  the  distant  boom  of 
the  surf  to  the  south  of  us  on  the  other  side 
of  the  sand-bar,  and  the  singing  of  the  birds  in 
the  woods  around  us.  The  bay  sleeps  quietly 


1 64    "Dead  Trees  Love  the  Fire" 

in  the  sunlight,  and  the  whole  Long  Island 
coast  is  in  brilliant  relief,  with  its  hills  in  the 
background,  just  beginning  to  show  the  first 
tints  of  autumn.  Our  miniature  forest  is  but 
a  five  minutes'  stroll  up  to  the  headland,  and 
the  children  begin  an  attack  on  the  last  of  the 
blackberries  as  we  go  along.  Upon  reaching 
our  grove  I  spy  my  old  friend  the  Cap'n 
coming  along  the  shore  in  his  cat-boat  from  a 
visit  to  some  distant  eel-pots,  and  with  the 
conviction  that  he  may  have  something  worth 
buying  besides  eels,  I  go  down  to  the  shore 
and  hail  him.  I  stand  high  in  the  Cap'n's 
consideration  just  now, — that  is,  as  high  as  any 
landlubber  can  ever  expect  to  stand, — for  I  have 
placed  at  the  side  of  my  writing-desk  one  of 
his  eel-pots,  which  I  use  as  a  scrap-basket.  I 
got  the  Cap'n  to  make  it  for  half-a-dollar,  and 
as  I  could  n't  quite  make  him  understand  for 
exactly  what  purpose  I  wanted  it,  as  a  waste- 
basket  is  something  he  had  never  heard  of,  he 
made  me  a  perfect  eel-pot,  and  having  put  it 
in  place  I  called  him  in  and  showed  him  how 
admirably  it  served  its  purpose.  It  was  nauti- 
cal, ichthyological,  and  harmonizes  with  the 


"Dead  Trees  Love  the  Fire"     165 

room  full  of  nets,  poles,  and  guns.  The  Cap'n 
was  so  much  pleased  with  the  sight  of  his  eel- 
pot  half  full  of  the  waste  from  my  desk  that  I 
can  scarcely  get  him  to  accept  pay  for  bait,  and 
some  day  I  think  that  he  will  show  me  a  few  of 
the  places  in  the  bay  where  weak-fish  are  really 
caught,  instead  of  many  places  where  they  are 
not,  as  is  the  custom  with  professional  fisher- 
men. Sure  enough,  the  Cap'n  has  a  bushel  of 
clams  in  his  boat  which  he  is  taking  over  to  the 
beach  for  a  friend,  and  it  is  not  hard  to  divert 
the  store  to  our  own  purposes.  The  children 
come  down  to  the  shore  and  I  pull  the  basket 
up  the  bank  under  the  shade  of  some  pines, 
while  they  begin  to  collect  firewood  enough  for 
a  clam-bake  at  dinner-time.  If  we  cannot  get 
clams  at  our  end  of  the  bay,  the  water  being 
too  fresh  so  far  from  an  ocean  inlet,  we  can  at 
least  have  them  brought  from  fifteen  to  twenty 
miles  farther  down,  and  then  they  can  be 
thrown  into  the  water,  where  they  will  live  for 
months,  to  be  taken  up  whenever  wanted. 

The  real  work  of  the  day  then  began.  While 
the  ladies  sewed  and  read  in  the  shade,  and  the 
children  picked  late  blackberries,  we  sturdy 


1 66    "Dead  Trees  Love  the  Fire" 

laborers  undertook  to  cut  down  half-a-dozen 
small  pines  and  saw  their  gnarled  limbs  into 
suitable  pieces  for  the  fire.  It  was  hot  work, 
and  it  made  it  hotter  to  think  of  the  blaze  that 
we  were  preparing  for.  To  quote  Thoreau 
again,  he  used  to  say  that  he  got  more  warmth 
out  of  cutting  his  firewood  than  out  of  its  blaze, 
and  his  conscience  was  never  quite  easy  as  to 
the  return  he  made  for  the  blessings  of  a  log 
fire.  He  used  to  say  that  though  he  had  paid 
money  to  the  owner  of  that  wood,  he  was  never 
quite  sure  that  the  debt  had  been  wholly  dis- 
charged. In  two  hours  we  had  done  enough 
of  our  work  to  see  that  with  a  little  sawing 
after  dinner  there  would  be  sufficient  to  load 
up  the  boat,  and  then  after  a  short  rest  we  be- 
gan to  prepare  for  dinner.  Whoever  wants  to 
know  what  clams  are  worth  must  cook  them 
on  the  shore,  and  with  driftwood  picked  up 
for  the  purpose.  I  have  tried  a  clam-bake  in 
our  garden,  I  have  tried  it  on  the  kitchen  stove, 
but  whether  the  difference  is  in  the  clams  or  in 
our  appetites,  the  result  is  never  the  same.  It 
is  the  easiest  thing  in  the  world  to  bake  clams 
to  perfection,  if  a  few  simple  rules  are  observed. 


"Dead  Trees  Love  the  Fire"     167 

Sweep  a  flat  space  upon  the  sand,  and  lay  upon 
it  the  sort  of  griddle  made  for  the  purpose, 
which  can  be  found  all  over  Long  Island.  The 
clams  are  held  upright  in  this  griddle,  which 
holds  at  least  one  hundred,  and  sometimes 
more.  Right  on  top  of  the  clams  build  a  loose 
fire  of  the  driftwood,  and  after  it  has  blazed 
well  for  five  minutes,  and  the  clams  begin  to 
hiss  violently,  half  smother  it  with  wet  sea- 
weed ;  a  moment  after,  one  or  two  clams  may 
be  tested.  Pick  one  out  with  a  pair  of  tongs 
and  throw  it  up  in  the  air,  letting  it  come  down 
upon  any  hard  surface,  a  board  or  a  stone.  If 
it  flies  open,  all  is  well,  and  the  feast  may  be- 
gin ;  if  not,  the  clams  are  not  quite  done. 
When  all  is  ready,  shovel  them  into  a  large  tin 
pan.  We  always  keep  the  implements  for  a 
clam-bake  in  one  of  the  lockers  of  the  boat,  for 
scores  of  times  every  summer  we  find  that  we 
can  have  a  clam-bake  when  we  least  expected 
it,  just  as  it  happened  this  morning.  Two 
hundred  clams  disappeared  among  seven  of  us, 
almost  sooner  than  it  takes  to  tell  the  tale,  and 
back  we  went  to  our  work. 

As  I  shouldered  my  axe  again  I  could  not 


1 68    "Dead  Trees  Love  the  Fire" 

help  one  more  thought  of  the  miserable  toilers 
in  town.  Was  I  stealing  a  living?  If  so,  the 
old  adage  regarding  stolen  sweets  once  more 
proved  true.  The  children  are  set  at  work 
carrying  the  wood  down  to  the  shore  ready  to 
be  put  on  board,  and  even  the  youngest,  a 
sturdy  damsel  of  not  quite  four,  shouts  with 
indignation  if  any  one  proposes  to  help  her 
along  with  her  load.  It  is  not  four  o'clock 
when  we  have  enough  wood  to  fill  up  the  sail- 
boat, and  we  have  to  put  some  of  it  on  deck. 
It  has  turned  out  to  be  a  pretty  hot  day,  and 
as  there  is  enough  breeze  to  take  us  home  in 
less  than  an  hour,  we  decide  for  a  surf-bath, 
and  the  Nelly 's  prow  is  turned  over  to  the 
beach  a  mile  off.  I  suppose  that  with  some 
people  the  daily  surf-bath  from  June  till  Octo- 
ber might  become  so  much  a  matter  of  course 
as  to  lose  half  its  delights.  As  with  country 
life,  so  it  is  with  the  surf,  so  far  as  I  am  con- 
cerned. It  is  always  the  keenest  of  pleasures 
and  never  more  so  than  after  a  good  day's  hard 
physical  work.  By  five  o'clock  we  make  sail 
for  home,  and  for  an  hour  we  have  before  us  a 
more  splendid  painting  than  was  ever  made  by 


"Dead  Trees  Love  the  Fire"     169 

man.  Here,  on  the  Great  South  Bay,  we  seem 
to  be  particularly  favored  in  the  matter  of  sun- 
sets, for  certainly  more  than  half  our  days  end 
with  one  of  these  color  displays  as  changing  as 
it  is  indescribable.  We  have  grown  so  used  to 
these  wonderful  pictures  that  adjectives  and 
superlatives  have  long  ago  been  used  up ;  some 
one  points  now  and  then  to  a  particularly  ex- 
quisite blending  of  gold  and  silver,  and  the  rest 
of  the  party  nod  in  silence.  By  the  time  we 
reach  our  harbor,  the  sun  has  gone  down  with 
the  breeze,  and  we  drift  slowly  into  the  little 
slip.  The  village  is  at  supper,  and  my  friend 
the  Cap'n,  who  stands  on  the  dock,  is  the  only 
one  to  greet  us.  He  peers  curiously  at  the 
wood,  and  seems  doubtful  when  I  tell  him  that 
it  is  to  burn.  For  the  Cap'n  also  has  his  ideas 
about  queer  people  who  waste  a  whole  day  and 
sail  ten  miles  to  get  a  lot  of  pine  knots  that 
any  "nigger  "  would  have  delivered  for  a  two- 
dollar  bill.  The  Cap'n's  notion  of  otium  cum 
dignitate  is  probably  an  unfailing  supply  of 
tobacco,  and  an  endless  conference  around  the 
village  store  stove  upon  the  affairs  of  the  neigh- 
borhood and  the  nation.  I  told  him  once  that 


1 70    "Dead  Trees  Love  the  Fire" 

I  should  think  he  would  enjoy  making  eel-pots, 
for  the  work  has  a  certain  fascination  about  it 
— this  weaving  together  of  strong,  supple  twigs 
of  oak,  the  converting  of  an  old  log  into  hun- 
dreds of  pots  that  will  do  duty  for  years. 
Every  day  the  Cap'n  can  feel  that  he  has  pro- 
duced something  of  value,  which  is  more  than 
a  great  many  more  pretentious  people  I  know 
of  can  say.  Down  comes  the  sail,  and  while 
the  boys  tie  it  up  and  make  the  ropes  ship- 
shape for  the  night,  we  gather  up  our  traps  and 
start  for  the  house,  leaving  the  Cap'n  deep  in 
thought,  as  he  squints  first  at  the  horizon  and 
then  at  our  little  pile  of  logs.  Even  twelve 
hours  of  open  air  have  not  quite  satisfied  me, 
and  were  it  not  for  several  letters  to  write  and 
a  good  many  proof-sheets  to  read,  I  should 
like  to  join  the  Cap'n  in  a  tour  of  his  eel-pots. 
There  is  no  wind,  so  that  the  bay  reflects  every 
star  as  it  peeps  out,  and  away  down  in  the 
southwest  we  catch  a  gleam  from  the  Fire 
Island  Light. 


THE   LIFE   WORTH    LIVING— HENRY 
DAVID   THOREAU 

IT  has  often  been  urged  that  such  a  scheme  as 
mine  would  be  all  very  well  for  a  man  with 
even  a  small  income,  say  sufficient  to  insure 
him  and  his  family  against  starvation  at  any 
time,  and  to  give  him  the  few  luxuries  which 
with  most  people  of  refinement  have  become 
almost  necessary.  For  instance,  even  an  in- 
come of  five  hundred  dollars  a  year  might  war- 
rant a  person  of  very  simple  tastes  in  making 
such  an  experiment  as  I  have  outlined ;  such  a 
sum  would,  at  least,  provide  oatmeal  and  milk, 
bread  and  coffee.  It  would  be  largely  a  return 
to  first  principles  in  household  economy,  but 
there  are  people  who  would  not  grumble  could 
they  exchange  a  life  of  intellectual  plenty  even 
at  this  cost  of  superfluities.  So  modest  a  sum 
as  five  hundred  dollars  a  year,  if  used  with  skill, 
might  provide  a  glimpse  of  such  dissipation 
171 


i;2       The  Life  Worth  Living 

as  an  occasional  theatre,  or  a  strain  of  music 
in  the  depth  of  winter,  the  only  time  when 
the  real  countryman  would  have  the  time  to 
leave  his  home,  or  the  inclination  to  do  so. 
The  rest  of  the  year  would  be  pretty  fully 
taken  up.  In  my  own  case,  it  happens  that, 
unlike  most  men  who  have  to  look  to  the  earn- 
ings of  the  year  for  bread  and  butter,  I  can 
throw  all  city  work  overboard  when  the  spring 
opens,  and  not  set  foot  in  town  before  the 
snow  flies.  To  most  men,  and  to  all  busi- 
ness men,  such  an  arrangement  is  impossi- 
ble ;  the  merchant  cannot  interrupt  his  work 
for  so  long  a  time  with  any  certainty  that  he 
will  be  able  to  pick  it  up  again ;  the  clerk  in  a 
shop  or  a  factory  must  be  at  his  post  all  the 
year  around,  or  not  at  all;  the  lawyer  has  to 
"keep  track  "  of  his  clients'  affairs,  or  he  would 
soon  find  himself  without  clients.  The  world's 
machinery  cannot  stop,  and  the  engineers  must 
be  at  their  posts.  There  are  very  few  occupa- 
tions outside  of  certain  departments  of  journal- 
ism which  can  be  taken  up  and  thrown  down 
at  will.  The  merchant,  the  clerk,  the  lawyer, 
the  doctor,  must  remain  at  their  posts  pretty 


Henry  David  Thoreau        1 73 

much  the  year  around,  and  this  rule  obtains  all 
the  more  strictly  with  subordinates. 

Therefore  the  problem  becomes  in  the  case 
of  ninety-nine  men  out  of  a  hundred :  Either 
to  give  up  one  or  the  other.  I  have  listened 
to  scores  of  persons  to  whom  I  have  submitted 
this  problem,  who  are  very  certain  that  no 
man,  especially  if  bred  in  a  large  city,  would 
consent  to  forsake  the  pleasures  of  the  town 
for  the  quiet  of  the  country.  I  took  the  trouble 
once  to  find  out,  as  nearly  as  possible,  exactly 
what  the  average  business  man  means  by  the 
word  "pleasure."  It  seems  that  in  the  opinion 
of  the  typical  young  man  of  business,  pleasure 
means  going  to  the  theatre  once  or  twice  a 
week,  meeting  large  numbers  of  other  young 
men  and  young  women  in  the  shops,  or 
in  the  streets,  or  in  their  homes,  or  at  church. 
The  essence  of  this  pleasure  is  the  crowd, — 
largely  of  inane  people  characterized  by  unrest, 
hurry,  or  idle  curiosity.  This  same  love  of 
the  crowd  characterizes  many  strata  of  society 
in  cities,  and  the  disease  seems  to  thrive  by 
what  it  feeds  upon.  As  an  illustration,  take 
the  history  of  the  efforts  made  by  one  of  our 


174       The  Life  Worth  Living 

charitable  societies  to  induce  some  of  the  very 
poorest  inhabitants  of  our  most  squalid  neigh- 
borhoods to  get  into  the  country.  For  nearly 
twenty  years  the  district  lying  between  the 
Bowery  and  the  East  River  in  New  York  City 
has  been  crowded  with  very  poor  people,  who 
make  a  business  of  sewing  upon  ready-made 
clothing.  They  are  largely  Polish  Jews  of 
small  intelligence,  and  apparently  no  instinct 
beyond  self-preservation.  They  live,  or  rather 
herd,  together  in  vile  holes,  for  which  they  pay 
exorbitant  rents,  and  their  life  is  one  long 
struggle  and  incessant  work.  According  to 
credible  reports,  work  begins  soon  after  day- 
break and  lasts  far  into  night,  when  the  poor 
wretches  sink  down  exhausted  upon  the  piles 
of  clothing  which  they  are  making  for  the  cheap 
shops  of  the  country.  Whole  families  live  and 
die  in  this  wretchedness,  the  children  knowing 
no  childhood,  as  we  understand  it,  and  old  age 
being  out  of  the  question  in  this  atmosphere  of 
foul  air  and  incessant  toil.  It  is  not  the  work 
of  healthy  people,  but  a  nervous  strain  to 
accomplish  two  days'  work  in  one.  In  many 
visits  which  I  have  made  to  such  homes,  I  have 


Henry  David  Thoreau        175 

invariably  noticed  that  the  workers  seldom  look 
up,  and  then  only  for  a  hurried  glance — time 
is  too  precious.  Well,  the  society  in  question 
attempted  to  solve  the  problem  before  them. 
Here  were  thousands  and  thousands  of  people 
who  never  knew  what  rest  or  recreation  really 
meant,  whose  children  had  never  seen  a  green 
field,  or  had  had  a  real  play  in  good  air,  whose 
lives  were  apparently  hopeless.  Ask  some  of 
the  most  intelligent  of  these  slaves  of  the  needle 
why  they  cannot  move  out  into  the  suburbs 
where  they  could  get  nice  little  cottages  for  less 
money  than  they  pay  in  their  horrible  quarters 
in  the  tenement  districts,  and  the  answer  is  al- 
ways that  they  cannot  spare  the  time  needed 
to  go  back  and  forth  with  the  bundles  of  cloth- 
ing upon  which  the  family  labors.  In  New 
York  such  errands  require  but  a  few  moments ; 
in  the  country  they  would  take  up  time  and 
money  for  car-fares. 

The  society  resolved  to  do  away  with  that 
trouble,  by  paying  for  the  expressage  of  cloth- 
ing to  and  from  the  city  for  people  who  might 
like  to  move  away,  and  a  quiet  spot  was  found 
out  on  Long  Island  where  a  dozen  little  houses 


i?6       The  Life  Worth  Living 

were  made  ready  for  the  first  colony  of  these 
people.  When  it  came  to  actually  leaving 
New  York  there  was  some  trouble  in  inducing 
a  dozen  families  to  go,  but  by  collecting  people 
with  many  children  and  making  the  rents  of 
the  cottages  almost  nominal,  a  dozen  families 
were  found  to  make  the  experiment.  In  less 
than  a  year  and  a  half  the  scheme  was  aban- 
doned. At  no  time  were  the  cottages  all  occu- 
pied after  the  first  month,  and  it  required  great 
inducements  to  prevail  upon  the  tenants  to  re- 
main more  than  a  quarter.  The  reasons  given 
by  them  for  returning  to  New  York  were,  in 
all  cases,  the  same:  the  women  of  the  family 
were  lonely — they  missed  the  society  of  the 
tenements.  They  missed  the  life  of  the  streets, 
the  drunken  brawls,  the  yells  and  screams,  the 
dirt,  the  noise,  the  heat,  the  foul  air  and  lan- 
guage of  the  slums.  The  children  may  have 
enjoyed  the  country,  but  their  elders  wanted 
society.  Going  higher  in  the  social  scale,  it 
seems  to  be  very  much  the  same  story.  People 
with  not  much  to  think  about  cannot  get  on 
without  the  crowd,  no  matter  what  kind  of  a 
crowd.  I  am  convinced  that  this  is  a  far  more 


Henry  David  Thoreau        177 

potent  factor  in  keeping  people  in  great  cities 
and  attracting  them  than  the  prospect  of  better 
clothes  and  whiter  hands  which  the  shop  offers 
to  the  young  man  from  the  farm.  Therefore 
in  order  to  wean  city  people,  who  ought  not  to 
live  in  the  city,  away  from  improper  environ- 
ment it  is  necessary  to  influence  them  in  some 
other  way  than  by  the  offer  of  purely  physical 
or  economical  advantages.  Probably  but  very 
little  can  be  done  in  this  field  except  through 
the  children,  and  the  value  of  the  work  accom- 
plished by  the  Children's  Aid  Society  in  send- 
ing out  waifs  picked  out  from  the  streets  to 
green  fields  and  pastures  new  in  the  Far  West 
cannot  be  overestimated.  With  the  average 
young  man  or  young  woman,  who  finds  ample 
enjoyment  in  the  gossip  of  the  shops  and  is  in- 
clined to  pity  any  one  condemned  to  country 
life,  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  the  case  is 
almost  equally  hopeless.  The  man  who  takes 
nothing  into  the  country  with  him,  intellec- 
tually speaking,  ought  not  to  go  there ;  he  will 
be  lonely.  I  was  strongly  impressed  with  this 
phase  of  the  matter  when  I  made  some  visits 
among  the  cheap  shops  which  line  Grand 


178       The  Life  Worth  Living 

Street,  east  of  the  Bowery.  There  are  large 
shops  here,  employing  hundreds  of  clerks  of 
both  sexes.  Work  begins  early  and  lasts  until 
seven  or  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening.  In 
many  of  the  shops  it  is  so  dark  that  gas  or 
electric  lights  have  to  be  used  at  mid-day. 
The  neighborhood  is  alive  with  people  of  the 
lower  and  middling  classes,  and  the  life  of  a 
clerk  in  one  of  these  shops  is  perpetual  motion. 
I  questioned  young  men  and  young  women  in 
these  shops  as  to  how  they  liked  their  work, 
and  as  to  why  they  did  not  try  to  get  into 
something  that  offered  them  more  time  and 
better  air.  In  no  case  out  of  twenty  or  thirty 
persons  whom  I  addressed  as  particularly  likely 
to  sympathize  with  the  suggestion  that  such  a 
life  in  such  a  place  was  the  life  of  a  dog,  did  I 
meet  with  a  responsive  note.  It  seemed  to 
these  people  that  all  was  right ;  it  was  a  case  of 
"Where  ignorance  is  bliss." 

I  remember  again  passing  through  Grand 
Street  early  one  morning  last  summer,  on  my 
way  to  take  the  train  for  a  far-off  country 
village.  The  morning  was  intensely  uncom- 
fortable, the  forerunner  of  a  terrible  day,  sure 


Henry  David  Thoreau        179 

to  count  its  victims  by  the  score.  In  front  of 
every  shop  along  this  thoroughfare  were  groups 
of  clerks  busy  piling  up  dry  goods  in  more  or 
less  artistic  shape,  intended  to  impress  the 
passers.  I  saw  hundreds  of  men,  many  of 
them  gray -headed  and  able-bodied,  who  seemed 
to  find  nothing  unpleasant  about  their  work. 
To  one  or  two  I  ventured  the  remark  as  I  went 
along  that  it  was  going  to  be  a  very  hot  day, 
and  that  the  country  boys  had  the  advantage 
of  their  city  brothers.  Even  that,  the  few 
clerks  to  whom  I  spoke  were  inclined  to  dis- 
pute. The  country  lad,  they  argued,  had  his 
troubles.  It  was  hot  in  the  cornfield  as  well  as 
on  Grand  Street,  and  while  the  dry-goods  clerk 
could  retire  into  the  depths  of  the  shop,  the 
farm  lad  had  to  work  away.  I  found  no  one 
inclined  to  prefer  the  life  of  field  work  to  which 
I  looked  forward  to  that  of  the  Grand  Street 
dry-goods  shops.  These  young  gentlemen 
would  carry  nothing  with  them  should  they 
abandon  the  shop  and  their  equally  empty- 
headed  associates.  Why  should  they  give  up 
the  society  they  knew  for  the  utter  solitude  of 
a  life  on  the  farm,  or  the  bay  ? 


i8o       The  Life  Worth  Living 

I  have  put  some  words  of  Thoreau's  upon 
the  title-page  of  this  book,  and  no  one  who 
has  taken  the  pains  to  dip  into  its  pages  can 
have  failed  to  see  that  I  have  read  the  famous 
hermit  of  Walden  Pond  with  persistency  and 
admiration.  There  has  always  been  to  me 
something  fascinating  about  this  out-door 
idealist.  I  never  have  been,  and  probably 
never  shall  be,  a  sympathizer  with  the  view 
which  makes  Thoreau  a  skulker,  as  Carlyle 
calls  him,  or  a  loafer,  as  most  of  our  typical 
American  business  men,  if  they  know  anything 
about  him  at  all,  would  probabiy  dub  him. 
At  the  same  time,  I  will  confess  that  the  man's 
asceticism  has  less  fascination  for  me  than  the 
persistency  with  which  he  harps  upon  the  idea 
that  nine  tenths  or  ninety-nine  one-hundredths 
of  our  people  waste  their  time  in  making 
money ;  touch  Thoreau  at  any  point  with  re- 
gard to  business  policy  or  business  life,  and  he 
fairly  bristles  with  sarcasm  and  jibes.  It  has 
been  a  life-long  wonder  to  me  that  the  man 
has  not  been  valued  more  highly  even  in  this 
community  devoted  to  matters  of  fact,  and  that 
so  few  outside  of  a  narrow  circle  of  writers  and 


Henry  David  Thoreau        181 

thinkers  know  anything  about  him.  I  am  con- 
vinced that  the  time  will  come  when  the  name 
of  Henry  David  Thoreau  will  stand  high  in 
American  annals.  He  was  our  first  noted 
protestant  —  passionate,  earnest,  persistent, 
honest — against  the  sordid  materialism  of  this 
country.  Our  earlier  years  as  a  nation  were 
naturally  taken  up  with  hard  material  work, 
and  if  to-day  we  place  work,  as  work,  upon  a 
pedestal  which  it  does  not  deserve,  it  is  due  to 
the  hereditary  warp  of  the  last  one  hundred 
years,  when  the  drawing  of  water  and  the  hew- 
ing of  wood  were  essential  to  life,  to  say  no- 
thing of  comfort.  There  was  certain  to  be 
some  energetic  protest  against  the  narrow  view 
of  life  which  all  work  and  no  play  was  sure  to 
produce  in  us  as  a  people,  and  the  wonder  is 
that  Thoreau  stands  alone  as  a  protestant. 

The  personality  of  the  man  is  so  interesting 
that  I  will  take  the  liberty  of  devoting  a  few 
pages  to  saying  something  of  him,  using  many 
words  and  expressions  which  I  find  in  an  ad- 
mirable little  article  contributed  some  years 
ago  to  the  Cornhill  Magazine,  by  Stevenson. 
"  Thoreau 's  thin,  penetrating,  big-nosed  face, 


1 82       The  Life  Worth  Living 

even  in  a  bad  wood-cut,"  says  this  writer, 
"conveys  some  hint  of  the  limitations  of  his 
mind  and  character.  With  his  almost  acid 
sharpness  of  insight,  with  his  almost  animal 
dexterity  in  action,  there  went  none  of  that 
large,  unconscious  geniality  of  the  world's 
hero.  He  was  not  easy,  or  ample,  or  urbane, 
not  even  kind."  "He  was  bred  to  no  pro- 
fession," says  Emerson;  "he  never  married; 
he  lived  alone,  he  went  to  no  church ;  he  never 
voted,  he  refused  to  pay  a  tax  to  the  State ;  he 
ate  no  flesh,  he  drank  no  wine,  he  never  knew 
the  use  of  tobacco;  and  though  a  naturalist, 
he  used  neither  trap  nor  gun.  When  asked  at 
dinner  what  dish  he  preferred,  he  answered, 
'the  nearest.'  '  He  was  no  ascetic,  rather  an 
epicurean  of  the  noblest  sort.  And  he  had  this 
one  great  merit,  that  he  succeeded  so  far  as  to 
be  happy.  He  was  content  in  living  like  the 
plant  he  had  planted  and  watered  with  solici- 
tude. For  instance,  he  explains  his  abstinence 
from  tea  and  coffee  by  saying  that  it  was  bad 
economy  and  worthy  of  no  true  virtuoso  to 
spoil  the  natural  rapture  of  the  morning  with 
stimulants;  let  him  see  the  sunshine  and  he 


Henry  David  Thoreau        183 

was  ready  for  the  labors  of  the  day.  These 
labors  were  partly  to  keep  out  of  the  way  of 
the  world.  His  faculties  were  of  a  piece  with 
his  moral  shyness.  He  could  guide  himself 
about  the  woods  on  the  darkest  night  by  the 
touch  of  his  feet.  He  could  pick  up  an  exact 
dozen  of  pencils  by  feeling;  pace  distances 
with  accuracy.  His  smell  was  so  dainty  that 
he  could  perceive  faefaetor  of  dwelling-houses 
as  he  passed  them  at  night ;  his  palate  so  un- 
sophisticated that  like  a  child  he  disliked  the 
taste  of  wine ;  and  his  knowledge  of  nature  was 
so  complete  and  curious  that  he  could  have 
told  the  time  of  year  within  a  day  or  so  by  the 
aspect  of  the  plants.  There  were  few  things 
that  he  could  not  do.  He  could  make  a  house, 
a  boat,  a  pencil,  or  a  book.  He  was  a  sur- 
veyor, a  scholar,  a  natural  historian.  He  could 
run,  walk,  climb,  skate,  and  swim,  and  manage 
a  boat.  The  smallest  occasion  served  to  dis- 
play his  physical  accomplishments;  and  a 
manufacturer,  upon  observing  his  dexterity 
with  the  window  of  a  railway  car,  offered  him 
a  situation  on  the  spot. 

Thoreau  decided  from  the  first  to  live  a  life 


1 84       The  Life  Worth  Living 

of  self-improvement ;  he  saw  duty  and  inclina- 
tion in  that  direction.  He  had  no  money,  and 
it  was  a  sore  necessity  which  compelled  him  to 
make  money — even  the  little  he  needed.  There 
was  a  love  of  freedom,  a  strain  of  the  wild  man, 
in  his  nature  that  rebelled  with  violence  against 
the  yoke  of  custom ;  he  was  so  eager  to  culti- 
vate himself  and  to  be  happy  in  his  own  society, 
that  he  could  consent  with  difficulty  even  to 
interruptions  of  friendship.  "Such  are  my 
engagements  to  myself  that  I  dare  not  promise," 
he  once  wrote  in  answer  to  an  invitation ;  and 
the  italics  are  his  own.  Thoreau  is  always 
careful  of  himself,  and  he  must  think  twice 
about  a  morning  call.  Imagine  him  condemned 
for  eight  hours  a  day  to  some  uncongenial  and 
unmeaning  business.  He  shrank  from  the  very 
look  of  the  mechanical  in  life;  all  should,  if 
possible,  be  sweetly  spontaneous.  Thus  he 
learned  to  make  lead-pencils,  and  when  he  had 
gained  the  highest  certificate  and  his  friends 
began  to  congratulate  him  on  his  establishment 
in  life,  he  calmly  announced  that  he  should 
never  make  another.  "Why  should  I?"  said 
he;  "I  would  not  do  again  what  I  have  done 


Henry  David  Thoreau        185 

once."  Yet  in  after  years,  when  it  became 
needful  to  support  his  family,  he  turned  pa- 
tiently to  this  mechanical  art.  He  tried  school- 
teaching.  "As  I  did  not  teach  for  the  benefit 
of  my  fellow-men,"  he  says,  "but  simply  for  a 
livelihood,  this  was  a  failure."  He  tried  trade 
with  the  same  results.  As  I  have  already  said, 
his  contempt  for  business  and  business  men 
was  utter.  He  says:  "If  our  merchants  did 
not  most  of  them  fail  and  the  banks  too,  my 
faith  in  the  old  rules  of  this  world  would  be 
staggered.  The  statement  that  ninety-nine  in 
a  hundred  doing  such  business  surely  break 
down  is  perhaps  the  sweetest  fact  that  statistics 
have  revealed. ' '  The  wish  was  probably  father 
to  the  figures. 

"The  cost  of  a  thing,"  says  Thoreau,  "is 
the  amount  of  what  I  will  call  life  which  is  re- 
quired to  be  exchanged  for  it,  immediately  or 
in  the  long  run."  The  idea  may  be  common- 
place, and  yet  most  of  us  will  admit  a  leavening 
of  truth  in  it  while  declining  to  make  an  ex- 
periment. Do  you  want  one  thousand  a  year, 
or  two  thousand  a  year?  Do  you  want  ten 
thousand  a  year?  And  can  you  afford  what 


1 86       The  Life  Worth  Living 

you  want?  It  is  a  matter  of  taste,  and  within 
certain  lines  not  in  the  least  a  question  of  duty, 
although  commonly  supposed  to  be  so.  There 
is  no  authority  for  that  view  anywhere.  Tho- 
reau's  tastes  are  well  defined.  He  loved  to  be 
free,  to  be  master  of  his  times  and  seasons ;  he 
preferred  long  rambles  to  rich  dinners,  his  own 
reflections  to  the  consideration  of  society,  and 
an  easy,  calm,  unfettered  life  among  green 
trees  to  dull  toiling  at  the  counter  of  a  bank. 
And  such  being  his  inclination,  he  determined 
that  he  would  gratify  it. 

In  1845,  when  twenty-eight  years  old,  an  age 
by  which  the  liveliest  of  us  have  usually  de- 
clined into  some  conformity  with  the  world, 
Thoreau,  with  a  capital  of  less  than  twenty-five 
dollars,  and  a  borrowed  axe,  walked  into  the 
woods  by  Walden  Pond,  and  began  his  experi- 
ment. He  built  himself  a  dwelling,  and  re- 
turned the  axe,  he  says,  sharper  than  when  he 
borrowed  it ;  he  reclaimed  a  patch  of  ground 
where  he  cultivated  beans,  peas,  potatoes,  and 
sweet-corn ;  he  had  his  bread  to  bake,  his  farm 
to  dig,  and  for  six  weeks  in  the  summer  he 
worked  as  surveyor  or  carpenter.  For  more 


Henry  David  Thoreau        187 

than  five  years  this  was  all  that  he  required  to 
do  for  his  support.  For  six  weeks  of  occupa- 
tion, a  little  cooking  and  a  little  gentle  hygienic 
gardening,  the  man  had  as  good  as  stolen  his 
living.  Or  it  must  rather  be  allowed  that  he 
had  done  far  better ;  for  the  thief  himself  was 
continually  and  busily  occupied.  He  says: 
"What  old  people  tell  you  you  cannot  do,  you 
try  and  find  you  can."  And  his  conclusion  is: 
"I  am  convinced  that  to  maintain  one's  self  on 
this  earth  is  not  a  hardship  but  a  pastime  if  we 
will  live  simply  and  wisely;  the  pursuits  of 
simpler  nations  are  still  the  sports  of  the  more 
artificial."  When  Thoreau  had  had  enough  of 
Walden  Pond,  he  showed  the  same  simplicity 
in  giving  it  up  as  in  beginning.  He  made  no 
fetish  of  his  scheme,  and  did  what  he  wanted 
squarely.  The  frugality  he  exercised  and  his 
asceticism  are  not  the  notable  points  of  this 
notable  experiment.  The  remarkable  part  of 
it  is  his  recognition  of  the  position  of  money ; 
he  had  perceived  and  was  acting  on  a  truth 
of  universal  application.  A  certain  amount  of 
money,  varying  with  the  number  and  extent  of 
our  desires,  is  a  necessity  to  each  one  of  us  in 


1 88       The  Life  Worth  Living 

the  present  order  of  society ;  but  beyond  that 
amount,  money  is  a  commodity  to  be  bought 
or  not  to  be  bought,  a  luxury  in  which  we  may 
indulge  or  stint  ourselves  like  any  other.  And 
there  are  many  luxuries  that  we  may  legiti- 
mately prefer  to  money,  such  as  a  grateful  con- 
science, a  country  life,  or  the  woman  of  our 
inclination.  Trite,  flat,  and  obvious  as  this 
conclusion  may  appear,  we  have  only  to  look 
around  us  to  see  how  scantily  it  has  been 
recognized  ;  and  after  a  little  reflection  perhaps 
we  may  decide  to  spend  a  trifle  less  for  money 
and  indulge  ourselves  a  trifle  more  in  freedom. 
Says  Thoreau:  "To  have  done  anything  by 
which  you  earned  money  merely,  is  to  be  idle 
and  worse."  There  are  in  his  letters  two  pas- 
sages relating  to  firewood  which  illustrate 
curiously  the  man's  habits  and  instinct  of 
studying  causes  and  reasons  rather  than  effects. 
He  says:  "I  suppose  I  have  burned  up  a 
good- sized  tree  to-night  —  and  for  what?  I 
settled  with  Mr.  Tarbell  for  it  the  other  day ; 
but  that  was  n't  a  final  settlement.  I  got  off 
cheaply  from  him.  At  last  one  will  say:  'Let 
us  see,  how  much  wood  did  you  burn,  sir? ' 


Henry  David  Thoreau        189 

and  I  shall  shudder  to  think  that  the  next 
question  will  be:  'What  did  you  do  while  you 
were  warm?'  '  It  is  not  enough  to  have 
earned  our  livelihood.  Either  the  earning 
should  have  been  serviceable  to  mankind  or 
something  else  must  follow.  To  live  is  some- 
times difficult,  but  it  is  never  meritorious  in 
itself,  and  we  must  have  a  reason  to  give  our 
own  conscience  why  we  should  continue  to 
exist  upon  this  earth.  Again  he  says,  speaking 
of  his  wood:  "There  is  a  far  more  important 
and  warming  heat,  commonly  lost,  which  pre- 
cedes the  burning  of  the  wood.  It  is  the 
smoke  of  industry,  which  is  incense.  I  had 
been  so  thoroughly  warmed  in  body  and  spirit 
that  when  at  length  my  fuel  was  housed  I  came 
near  selling  it  to  the  ashman  as  if  I  had  ex- 
tracted all  its  heat."  Thus  Thoreau  was  not 
an  idler  by  any  means.  Industry  was  a  passion 
with  him,  but  it  must  be  productive  industry. 
There  is  not  a  day  when  Thoreau  does  not 
record  some  useful  work  in  his  diary.  He 
writes,  he  works  his  garden,  he  chops  down 
trees,  he  helps  others.  The  art  he  loved  was 
literature.  He  believed  in  good  books;  his 


190       The  Life  Worth  Living 

reading  was  not  particularly  wide,  for  he  hated 
libraries  and  had  not  money  wherewith  to  buy 
books.  In  one  of  his  diaries  he  recalls  his  in- 
disposition to  go  to  Cambridge  or  Boston  in 
order  to  look  at  books  in  the  library,  and  he 
suggests  that  libraries  should  be  built  in  the 
woods  where  sensitive  men  might  enjoy  their 
contents  without  being  compelled  to  face  the 
noise  and  dust  of  the  towns.  He  wrote  at  all 
times ;  in  the  evening  at  his  desk,  or  during  a 
moment's  rest  upon  a  fallen  log  or  stone.  He 
composed  as  he  walked,  the  length  of  his  walk 
making  the  length  of  his  writing.  When  he 
could  not  get  out-of-doors  during  the  day,  for 
one  reason  or  another,  he  wrote  nothing;  he 
said  that  houses  were  like  hospitals,  and  the 
atmosphere  of  them  enervated  the  mind  as  well 
as  the  body.  His  great  subject,  the  text 
which  he  viewed  on  all  sides  and  was  always 
preaching  from,  was  the  pursuit  of  self-im- 
provement even  in  the  face  of  unfriendly 
criticism  as  it  goes  on  in  our  society.  He  was 
a  critic  before  a  naturalist.  His  books,  such 
as  Walden,  and  A  Week  on  the  Concord,  would 
be  delightful  studies  of  nature  even  without  the 


Henry  David  Thoreau        191 

touch  of  interest  they  acquire  at  the  thought 
that  the  man  himself  is  preaching  to  an  audi- 
ence of  people  who  consider  him  little  better 
than  a  madman.  Unquestionably  he  was  a 
true  lover  of  nature. 

The  quality  which  we  should  call  mystery  in 
a  painting,  and  which  belongs  so  particularly 
to  the  aspect  of  the  external  world  and  to  its 
influence  upon  our  feelings,  was  one  which  he 
was  never  weary  of  attempting  to  reproduce  in 
his  books.  The  significance  of  nature's  ap- 
pearances, their  unchanging  strangeness  to  the 
senses  and  the  thrilling  response  they  awaken 
in  the  mind  of  man,  continued  to  surprise  and 
stimulate  his  spirits.  He  writes  to  a  friend: 
"Let  me  suggest  a  theme  for  you — to  state  to 
yourself  precisely  and  completely  what  that 
walk  over  the  mountains  amounted  to  for  you, 
returning  to  this  essay  again  and  again  until 
you  are  satisfied  that  all  that  was  important  in 
your  experience  is  in  it.  Don't  suppose  that 
you  record  it  precisely  the  first  dozen  times  you 
try,  but  at  'em  again;  especially  when,  after 
a  sufficient  pause,  you  suspect  that  you  are 
touching  the  heart  or  stomach  of  the  matter. 


192       The  Life  Worth  Living 

Reiterate  your  blows  there  and  account  for 
the  mountain  to  yourself.  Not  that  the  story 
need  be  long,  but  it  will  take  a  long  while  to 
make  it  short."  Perhaps  the  most  success- 
ful work  that  Thoreau  accomplished  in  this 
direction  is  to  be  found  in  the  passages  relating 
to  fish  in  the  Week.  These  are  remarkable 
for  a  vivid  truth  of  impression  and  a  happy  use 
of  language  not  frequently  surpassed. 

Perhaps  the  very  coldness  and  egoism  of  his 
own  nature  gave  Thoreau  a  clearer  insight  into 
the  intellectual  basis  of  our  warm  mutual  tolera- 
tions grouped  under  the  head  of  friendship; 
testimony  to  the  value  of  friendship  comes 
with  added  force  from  one  who  was  solitary 
and  disobliging,  and  of  whom  a  friend  re- 
marked: "I  love  Henry,  but  I  cannot  like 
him."  He  made  scarcely  any  distinction  be- 
tween love  and  friendship.  He  was,  indeed, 
too  accurate  an  observer  not  to  remark  that 
there  exists  already  a  natural  disinterestedness 
and  liberality  between  men  and  women;  yet 
he  thought  friendship  no  respecter  of  sex. 
"We  are  not  what  we  are,"  says  he,  "nor  do 
we  treat  or  esteem  each  other  for  such  but  for 


Henry  David  Thoreau        193 

what  we  are  capable  of  being."  Again:  "It 
is  the  merit  and  preservation  of  friendship  that 
it  takes  place  on  a  higher  level  than  the  actual 
characters  of  the  parties  would  seem  to  war- 
rant. Is  this  not  light  in  a  dark  place?  We 
are  different  with  different  friends;  yet  if  we 
look  closer,  we  shall  find  that  every  such  re- 
lation reposes  on  some  particular  hypothesis  of 
one's  self."  Yet  this  analyst  of  friendship 
was  not  friendly  with  many  persons  and  was 
intimate  with  none.  Thoreau  had  no  illusions; 
he  does  not  give  way  to  love  any  more  than  to 
hatred,  but  preserves  them  both  with  care,  like 
valuable  curiosities.  He  is  an  egoist ;  he  does 
not  remember  that  in  these  near  intimacies  we 
are  ninety-nine  times  disappointed  in  our  beg- 
garly selves  for  once  that  we  are  disappointed 
in  our  friends;  that  it  is  we  who  seem  most 
frequently  undeserving  of  the  love  that  unites 
us.  Thoreau  is  after  profit  in  these  intimacies ; 
moral  profit  to  be  sure,  but  still  profit  to  him- 
self. "If  you  will  be  the  sort  of  friend  I 
want,"  he  remarks,  "my  education  cannot 
dispense  with  your  society."  As  though  his 

friend  were  a  dictionary.     And  with  all  this, 
13 


194       The  Life  Worth  Living 

not  one  word  about  pleasure,  or  laughter,  or 
kisses,  or  any  quality  of  flesh  and  blood.  It 
was  not  inappropriate,  surely,  that  he  had  such 
close  relations  with  the  fishes.  We  can  under- 
stand the  friend  already  quoted  when  he  cried : 
"As  for  taking  his  arm,  I  would  as  soon  think 
of  taking  the  arm  of  an  elm-tree."  It  is  not 
surprising  that  he  experienced  but  a  broken 
enjoyment  in  his  intimacies ;  he  went  to  see  his 
friends  as  one  might  stroll  in  to  see  a  cricket- 
match —  not  simply  for  the  pleasure  of  the 
thing,  but  with  some  afterthought  of  self-im- 
provement. It  was  his  theory  that  people  saw 
each  other  too  frequently;  they  had  nothing 
fresh  to  communicate;  friendship  with  him 
meant  a  society  for  mutual  improvement. 

"The  only  obligation,"  says  he,  "which  I 
have  a  right  to  assume  is  to  do  at  any  time 
what  I  think  right."  "Why  should  we  ever 
go  abroad,  even  across  the  way  to  ask  a  neigh- 
bor's advice?"  "There  is  a  nearer  neighbor 
within  who  is  incessantly  telling  us  how  we 
should  behave.  But  we  wait  for  the  neighbor 
without  to  tell  us  of  some  faults."  "  The  greater 
part  of  what  my  neighbors  call  good  I  believe 


Henry  David  Thoreau        195 

in  my  soul  to  be  bad."  To  be  what  we  are 
and  to  become  what  we  are  capable  of  becom- 
ing is  the  end  of  life.  It  is  "when  we  fall  be- 
hind ourselves,"  that  "we  are  cursed  with 
duties  and  the  neglect  of  duties."  "I  love 
the  wild,"  he  says,  "not  less  than  the  good. 
The  life  of  a  good  man  will  hardly  improve  us 
more  than  the  life  of  a  freebooter,  for  the  in- 
evitable laws  appear  as  plainly  in  the  infringe- 
ment as  in  the  observance,  and  our  lives  are 
sustained  by  a  nearly  equal  expense  of  virtue 
of  some  kind."  "As  for  doing  good,"  he 
writes  elsewhere,  "that  is  one  of  the  profes- 
sions that  are  full.  Moreover,  I  have  tried  it 
fairly,  and,  strange  as  it  may  seem,  am  satisfied 
that  it  does  not  agree  with  my  constitution. 
Probably  I  should  not  conscientiously  and  de- 
liberately forsake  my  particular  calling  to  do  the 
good  which  society  demands  of  me  to  save  the 
universe  from  annihilation ;  and  I  believe  that 
a  like  but  infinitely  greater  steadfastness  else- 
where is  all  that  preserves  it  now.  If  you  should 
ever  be  betrayed  into  any  of  these  philanthro- 
pies, do  not  let  your  left  hand  know  what  your 
right  hand  does,  for  it  is  not  worth  knowing." 


196       The  Life  Worth  Living 

In  the  case  of  Thoreau  so  great  a  show  of 
doctrine  contrary  to  what  the  world  believed, 
demanded  some  practical  outcome.  If  nothing 
were  to  be  done  but  build  a  shanty  at  Walden 
Pond,  we  have  heard  too  much  of  these  decla- 
rations of  independence.  That  the  man  wrote 
some  books  is  nothing  to  the  purpose,  for  the 
same  has  been  done  in  a  suburban  villa.  That 
he  kept  himself  happy  is  perhaps  a  sufficient 
excuse,  but  it  is  disappointing  to  the  reader. 
We  may  be  unjust,  but  when  a  man  despises 
commerce  and  philanthropy  and  has  views  of 
good  so  soaring  that  he  must  take  himself 
apart  from  mankind  for  their  cultivation,  we 
will  not  rest  content  without  some  striking  act. 
And  it  was  not  Thoreau 's  fault  if  he  were  not 
martyred ;  had  the  occasion  come,  he  would 
have  made  a  noble  ending.  He  made  one 
practical  appearance  on  the  stage  of  affairs,  and 
strangely  characteristic  of  the  man.  It  was 
forced  on  him  by  his  calm  but  radical  opposi- 
tion to  negro  slavery.  "Voting  for  the  right 
is  doing  nothing  for  it,"  he  says;  "it  is  only 
expressing  to  men  feebly  your  desire  that  it 
should  prevail."  "I  do  not  hesitate  to  say," 


Henry  David  Thoreau        197 

he  adds,  "that  those  who  call  themselves  abo- 
litionists should  at  once  effectually  withdraw 
their  support  both  in  person  and  property  from 
the  government  of  Massachusetts."  This  is 
what  he  did.  In  1843  ne  ceased  to  pay  the 
poll-tax.  He  had  seceded.  He  says:  "In 
fact  I  declare  war  with  the  State  after  my  own 
fashion."  He  was  put  in  prison,  but  that  was 
a  part  of  his  design.  "Under  a  government 
which  imprisons  any  unjustly,  the  true  place 
for  a  just  man  is  also  in  prison.  I  know  this 
well,  that  if  one  thousand,  if  one  hundred,  if 
ten  men  whom  I  could  name — ay,  if  one 
honest  man  in  this  State  of  Massachusetts, 
ceasing  to  hold  slaves,  were  actually  to  with- 
draw from  this  copartnership  and  be  locked  up 
in  the  county  jail  therefor  it  would  be  the  abo- 
lition of  slavery  in  America."  A  friend  paid 
the  tax  for  him  and  continued  year  by  year  to 
pay  it,  so  that  Thoreau  was  free  to  walk  the 
woods. 

This  curious  personality  of  Henry  David 
Thoreau  stands  alone,  apparently,  as  a  practical 
attempt  to  grasp  the  good  things  of  this  world, 
in  a  higher  sense,  without  paying  the  penalty 


198       The  Life  Worth  Living 

which  tradition  and  custom  exact.  In  more 
ways  than  in  money  we  constantly  pay  for  the 
privilege  of  living  in  crowds.  To  say  nothing 
of  the  nervous  wear  and  tear,  the  whole  drift 
is  by  association  tending  towards  deterioration. 
So  long  as  we  continue  to  live  in  crowds  there 
must  be  an  infinite  amount  of  contact  with 
human  nature  which  is  petty,  mean,  despicable. 
We  cannot  escape  from  it.  While  in  Rome  we 
must  do  as  the  Romans.  I  confess  that  if  my 
fellow-man  is  typified  in  the  crowd  I  see  around 
me,  especially  in  large  cities,  I  detest  my  fellow- 
man.  It  may  be  the  height  of  selfishness  for 
the  egoist  to  say :  "These  people  have  nothing 
good  to  teach  me;  I  can  gain  nothing  from 
them ;  let  them  keep  to  themselves  and  allow 
me  to  strive  for  something  higher,  untram- 
melled by  their  association  or  their  advice." 
But  such  a  course  may  be  wise  in  order  to 
make  the  most  of  what  little  capital  we  have 
fallen  heir  to  in  the  shape  of  health,  intelli- 
gence, and  appreciation  of  things  which  are 
priceless  in  every  sense,  such  as  the  sunlight 
and  the  color  of  the  clouds.  To  get  rid  of 
unpleasant  and  seemingly  unprofitable  associa- 


Henry  David  Thoreau        199 

tions,Thoreau  cut  loose  from  society  and  buried 
himself  at  Walden.  You  may  call  it  selfish- 
ness, if  you  will,  but  which  is  more  likely  to 
occur:  that  you  will  sink  to  the  level  of  the 
crowd  which  surrounds  you,  or  that,  by  taking 
up  your  cross  and  remaining  at  your  post,  the 
crowd  will  benefit  by  your  self-sacrifices  and 
reflect  one  gleam  of  what  you  may  consider  to 
be  your  superior  light?  Is  there  not  egoism  in 
either  course,  perhaps  the  lesser  in  fleeing  from 
the  crowd  and  trying  to  work  out  salvation 
for  one's  self  and  one's  family? 


WHAT    WE    LOSE    AND    WHAT    WE 
GAIN 

WHEN  the  prisoners  were  released  from 
the  Bastille  by  the  mob,  it  is  said  that 
some  of  the  old  men  begged  to  be  allowed  to 
return  to  their  cells ;  they  had  become  so  ac- 
customed to  darkness  and  confinement  that 
they  dreaded  the  open  air.  The  man  who  can 
find  nothing  but  ennui  in  the  fields  is  an  illus- 
tration of  the  same  curious  phenomenon — the 
loss  of  appreciation  of  what  is  best  in  life.  For 
several  years  I  have  been  harping  upon  this 
theme;  I  have  preached  in  season  and  out  of 
season,  that  open-air  life  is  the  right  one,  and 
that  any  man  who  ties  himself  down  for  eight 
or  ten  hours  a  day  the  year  round  to  a  desk  is 
paying  too  much  for  the  money  he  earns ;  and 
I  have  done  this  without,  so  far  as  I  know, 
making  a  single  convert.  I  have  preached 
country  life  and  country  work  until  some  of 

200 


What  We  Lose  and  Gain     201 

my  friends  dread  the  mention  of  the  subject. 
In  the  beginning  they  argued  the  matter;  now 
they  laugh,  as  if  to  say  that  I  have  become  so 
infatuated  with  my  hobby  as  to  have  lost  all 
sense  of  proportion.  I  never  expected  to  make 
a  convert ;  in  fact,  I  should  feel  rather  uncom- 
fortable if  any  friend  of  mine  should  desert  his 
desk  and  take  to  the  garden  for  a  living  upon 
my  advice.  So  that  I  have  not  been  disap- 
pointed. At  the  same  time,  I  have  discovered 
nothing  to  make  me  doubt  the  soundness  of 
my  position.  I  listen  to  ridicule  and  argu- 
ment, endeavoring  to  give  due  weight  to  what 
I  hear.  The  chief  reasons  why  this  desertion 
of  the  town  is  denounced  as  folly  may  be 
summed  up  as  follows:  (i)  The  loneliness  of 
the  country  will  become  oppressive ;  (2)  it  will 
be  impossible  to  give  my  family  more  than  the 
comforts  of  a  workman's  home — our  living  will 
be  plain,  our  clothes  will  be  unfashionable,  our 
rich  neighbors  will  not  call  upon  us;  (3)  the 
children  will  grow  up  no  better  than  farmers' 
children ;  (4)  in  the  end  there  will  be  a  return 
to  town  to  take  up  the  old  life  under  con- 
ditions of  greater  hardship  than  ever,  years  of 


202  What  We  Lose 

absence  having  broken  connections  that  might 
have  become  profitable  with  time ;  (5)  to  leave 
town  for  good,  or  practically  for  good,  is  unfair 
to  my  wife  and  children,  even  if  I  do  find 
pleasure  and  profit  myself  in  such  a  step.  It 
is  implied  that  life  without  new  bonnets  is  not 
worth  living  to  a  woman,  and  that  children 
may  grow  up  to  be  young  savages.  In  the 
following  pages  I  try  to  answer  these  objec- 
tions. Whether  or  not  I  succeed  in  convincing 
any  one,  I  am  sure  that  they  rest  upon  a  wholly 
false  estimate  of  the  value  of  city  life  and  upon 
the  equally  false  notion  to  the  effect  that  intel- 
lectual growth  cannot  take  place  far  from  great 
cities.  One  of  my  acquaintances  to  whom  I 
announced  one  day  that  I  hoped  never  again 
to  spend  more  than  ten  weeks  of  the  year  in 
the  city,  said  to  me:  "How  do  you  get  on 
without  society?  In  summer  you  may  have 
city  friends  glad  to  share  your  bluefish  and 
honey  for  a  few  weeks,  but  the  rest  of  the  year 
— before  July  and  after  September — it  must  be 
lonely  enough  to  drive  you  crazy." 

So  I  must  hear  the  talk  of  the  town  in  order 
to  be  happy?     Seriously,  I  do  not  believe  that 


And  What  We  Gain         203 

from  one  end  of  the  week  to  the  other  passed 
in  the  very  heart  of  the  city's  turmoil,  working 
for  many  hours  in  a  busy  newspaper  office — the 
very  place  where  interesting  talk  is  supposed 
to  centre — visiting  a  club  or  two,  going  to  the 
theatre  and  to  the  opera  several  times — I  do 
not  believe  that  in  this  busy  week  I  hear 
enough  interesting  talk  to  compensate  me  for 
the  loss  of  one  hour  in  my  orchard  or  on  the 
bay.  You  cannot  get  out  of  people  what  is 
not  in  them.  You  cannot  expect  the  success- 
ful dealer  in  butter,  sugar,  or  candle-grease  to 
tell  you  anything  you  do  not  know,  unless  it  is 
about  things  he  buys  and  sells,  and  I  am  not 
interested  in  these  things.  Of  all  the  dreary 
stuff  with  which  our  dreary  newspapers  are 
filled,  by  all  odds  the  most  dreary  to  me  con- 
sists of  the  reproductions  of  the  talk  of  these 
good  people.  The  personal-gossip  column, 
which  of  late  years  has  grown  to  great  lengths 
— millionaire  A's  explanation  of  the  recent  rise 
in  the  price  of  leather,  Senator  B's  reasons  for 
believing  that  Coroner  Jones  will  again  be 
elected  this  year,  are  matters  that  do  not  in- 
terest me  in  the  least.  An  ocean  of  gabble 


204  What  We  Lose 

which  to-day  appears  to  hide  the  paucity  of 
ideas  among  us  has  broken  into  the  news- 
papers. The  exaggeration  of  trifles  is  one  of 
the  diseases  of  the  age.  The  instructions  given 
to  our  reporters  seem  to  be  to  question  the 
boot-black  who  blacks  their  shoes,  the  washer- 
woman who  brings  home  their  shirts,  and  the 
President  of  the  United  States,  if  they  are 
lucky  enough  to  meet  him,  printing  all  that 
the  washerwoman,  the  boot-black,  and  the 
President  may  have  to  say  about  their  respec- 
tive businesses.  The  stuff  is  ground  over  and 
over  again.  Nothing  interesting  can  come 
from  people  who  have  no  ideas,  and  ideas  do 
not  come  by  dint  of  gabble.  Silence  is  golden. 
In  my  orchard  there  is  silence.  I  have  always 
admired  Webster's  reply  to  a  barber,  who  asked 
him  how  he  wished  to  be  shaved.  "In  silence, ' ' 
replied  the  great  man.  I  suppose  that  I  am 
told  a  dozen  times  a  day  by  different  persons 
that  it  is  a  fine  day,  or  a  wet  day,  or  that  it 
was  cold  yesterday,  or  will  rain  to-morrow. 
The  boy  who  opens  the  door  for  me  as  I  leave 
my  house  gives  me  his  opinion  as  to  the 
weather,  the  man  who  runs  the  elevator  down- 


And  What  We  Gain         205 

town  does  the  same  thing,  the  waiter  who 
brings  me  some  luncheon  gives  me  his  views 
on  the  weather,  past,  present,  and  future,  and 
as  I  ride  home  the  conductor,  if  he  finds  time, 
tells  me  what  kind  of  weather  we  are  having. 
At  the  risk  of  seeming  crusty  to  a  degree,  I  will 
confess  that  I  care  for  no  man's  opinion  about 
the  weather,  unless  it  is  the  government  ex- 
pert's, and  not  much  for  his. 

It  is  assumed  that  in  town  one  meets  with 
people  who  have  ideas  —  authors,  writers, 
thinkers,  men  of  science,  whose  words  are  full 
of  inspiration.  Perhaps  I  have  been  rather 
fortunate  in  meeting  with  people  whose  names 
are  heard  frequently.  Yet  I  cannot  say  that 
the  loss  of  such  opportunities  as  I  have  en- 
joyed in  this  respect  ever  worries  me.  Take 
the  authors  and  the  writers,  for  instance.  The 
man  who  has  time  and  leisure  may  occasionally, 
if  he  likes  that  sort  of  thing,  meet  the  author 
whose  novels  are  most  read  at  the  moment. 
But  it  is  extremely  doubtful  whether  this 
gentleman  will  talk  half  so  well  in  the  drawing- 
room  as  he  does  in  his  book.  These  authors 
are  devoting  the  best  part  of  their  lives  to 


206  What  We  Lose 

thinking  of  something  brilliant  wherewith  to 
amuse  me ;  they  polish  their  work,  going  over 
it  scores  of  times,  finally  presenting  it  to  me 
nicely  printed  and  illustrated,  if  necessary. 
And  I  may  listen  as  long  or  as  little  as  I  like 
to  what  they  may  have  to  say.  In  days  when 
there  were  no  such  things  as  cheap  printing  and 
magazines,  I  suppose  that  the  talk  of  the  town 
was  essential  to  many  people.  To-day,  the 
author  who  has  a  clever  idea  sells  it.  The 
very  dependence  upon  gossip  for  ideas  betrays 
lack  of  reading.  When  for  a  few  cents  we  can 
buy  the  results  of  the  best  thinking  of  our  best 
writers,  why  should  we  run  after  the  writers 
themselves?  Of  course  I  am  not  talking  about 
what  men  of  high  position  in  the  literary  world 
or  the  social  world  may  be  able  to  get  out  of  the 
life  of  cities ;  I  am  speaking  of  what  the  poor 
man,  hard  driven  to  earn  the  few  thousand 
dollars  a  year  needed  to  keep  his  children  in 
bread  and  butter,  will  probably,  judging  by 
my  own  experience  and  that  of  some  of  my 
friends,  be  able  to  think  of  as  a  possible  loss 
in  considering  the  advisability  of  deserting  the 
city  for  the  country. 


And  What  We  Gain         207 

I  am  not  sure  but  that  we  enjoy  the  work  of 
some  men  all  the  better  because  we  do  not 
know  them  personally.  At  a  distance  they  are 
heroes,  more  or  less.  I  have  heard  some  peo- 
ple say  that  their  enjoyment  in  the  magic  of 
Richard  Wagner's  works  would  be  unquestion- 
ably deepened  had  they  not  had  the  misfortune 
to  meet  the  man  himself — a  great  genius  who 
was  utterly  indifferent  to  what  people  thought 
of  him,  and  utterly  careless  of  the  wounds  he 
inflicted.  I  esteem  it  rather  a  piece  of  good 
fortune  that  I  never  saw  the  greatest  musician 
that  the  world  has  ever  seen  or  probably  will 
see  for  generations  to  come.  The  personality 
of  the  man  was  not  a  pleasant  one,  and  I  be- 
lieve that  I  am  justified  in  saying  this,  notwith- 
standing some  attempts  to  make  out  a  different 
case.  A  famous  Leipsic  lawyer,  a  Jew,  has  in 
his  study  a  marble  bust  of  Wagner,  with  a 
wreath  of  laurel  on  its  brow  and  a  rope  around 
its  neck.  "The  one,"  he  says  to  visitors, 
"shows  what  I  think  of  the  composer,  the 
other  what  I  think  of  the  man."  And  the 
Jews  are  not  alone  in  their  detestation  of 
the  man,  while  confessing  to  an  unlimited 


208  What  We  Lose 

admiration  for  the  musician.  His  pamphlets 
against  the  Jew  in  music,  his  caricatures  of  the 
French  in  defeat,  were  only  a  small  part  of  the 
offensive,  wounding  things  that  Wagner  allowed 
himself  to  utter.  The  anecdotes  of  the  man's 
arrogance  are  many.  I  know  of  one  young 
American  who  would  enjoy  Wagner's  music 
more  had  he  never  attempted  to  interview  the 
composer  of  Tristan.  This  particular  enthusi- 
ast had  been  sent  by  one  of  our  newspapers  to 
Bayreuth  for  the  express  purpose  of  telling 
Wagner  how  much  the  great  world  of  America 
delighted  in  the  master's  works,  and  to  get 
from  him  some  sort  of  pleasant  acknowledg- 
ment, if  possible,  of  the  courtesy.  The  scribe 
arrived  in  Bayreuth  and  wasted  a  score  of 
cards  and  letters  without  obtaining  the  promise 
of  an  interview.  The  situation  was  becoming 
desperate — his  newspaper  wanted  an  interview. 
The  young  man  learned  that  Wagner  was  ac- 
customed to  stroll  every  morning  in  a  certain 
wood  soon  after  sunrise.  He  waylaid  the 
composer  and  found  him  seated  upon  a  bench. 
Now  Wagner  did  not  love  newspapers  or  news- 
paper men,  and  he  had  good  reason.  But 


And  What  We  Gain         209 

surely  an  exception  might  be  made  in  favor 
of  America.  There  he  had  not  been  attacked 
or  ridiculed  by  newspaper  men,  for  the  very 
good  reason  that  his  name  was  scarcely  known, 
to  say  nothing  of  his  music.  The  interviewer 
made  a  bold  attack.  Mustering  up  his  best 
German,  he  began  his  address,  Wagner  gazing 
dreamily  at  him  and  not  moving  a  muscle:  "I 
am  commissioned  by  a  great  newspaper  of  that 
great  Republic  over  the  seas,  where  your  music 
is  already  a  household  word  ( !),  to  tell  you  of 
the  deep  admiration  that  exists  for  you  there, 
and  to  ask  you  for  some  words  of  greeting  in 
return."  Not  a  word  did  the  great  man  vouch 
in  reply.  Perhaps  he  failed  to  catch  my  mean- 
ing, thought  the  young  man ;  and  so  he  re- 
peated his  little  speech.  Then  Wagner  pointed 
towards  the  gates  of  the  park,  muttering  a  few 
German  words,  a  free  but  fair  translation  of 
which  might  be — "Get  out!  "  While  this  was 
not  the  sort  of  interview  which  had  been  hoped 
for,  it  did  not  prevent  the  interviewer  from 
making  a  column  talk  with  Wagner,  in  which 
the  composer  was  made  to  bubble  over  with 

gratitude  to  America  and  Americans.     Those 
14 


210  What  We  Lose 

in  the  secret  knew  that  the  interview  upon 
Wagner's  part  consisted  of  but  two  words.  I 
am  not  defending  the  institution  of  interview- 
ing, and  I  do  not  doubt  that  "Wagner  may  have 
had  excellent  reasons  for  objecting  to  such  an 
intrusion ;  the  world  may  have  lost  some  musi- 
cal thought  of  the  utmost  beauty  by  the  enter- 
prise, so-called,  of  this  American ;  I  am  simply 
giving  an  illustration  of  what  may  be  lost  by 
too  near  a  view  of  a  great  man. 

The  art  of  writing  most  beautifully  upon 
charity  may  exist  in  a  man  whose  life  knows 
not  a  charitable  instinct  or  act.  The  man  who 
can  talk  and  write  exquisitely  about  love  to- 
wards one's  neighbor  may  be  conspicuous  for  a 
vile  temper  at  home.  The  novelist  who  de- 
lights me  in  print  may,  and  probably  will,  disap- 
point me  in  person.  Upon  the  whole,  while  I 
can  look  back  to  some  pleasure  derived  from 
the  talk  of  men  whose  writings  are  famous,  I 
doubt  whether  the  disappointments  do  not  out- 
weigh the  pleasures.  Certainly  the  satisfaction 
which  I  have  found  in  meeting  persons  who 
write  well  has  been  infinitesimal  as  compared 
with  the  pleasure  which  these  same  persons 


And  What  We  Gain         211 

have  given  me  by  their  books.  As  to  the  so- 
called  literary  evenings  of  great  cities — occa- 
sions upon  which  some  person  in  public  view 
at  the  moment  is  placed  upon  exhibition  by 
Mrs.  Leo  Hunter,  I  know  of  few  less  dreary 
ways  of  wasting  precious  time. 

I  presume  that  in  this  matter  of  house, 
grounds,  clothes,  and  other  signs  of  outward 
luxury,  the  fact  that  poverty  is  considered 
synonymous  with  inferiority  is  primarily  due  to 
simple  causes.  I  wear  a  patched  coat ;  there- 
fore I  have  no  money  wherewith  to  buy  a  new 
one.  The  absence  of  money  implies  inability 
to  earn  money ;  therefore  I  am  not  so  energetic 
or  so  clever  as  some  of  my  fellow-men  who 
earn  more  money  and  wear  good  coats.  In  a 
country  where  the  measure  of  a  man  is  the 
amount  of  money  or  property  that  he  has  been 
able  to  acquire,  either  through  industry  or 
luck  in  gambling,  it  is  inevitable  that  the 
money  standard,  or  the  coat  standard,  should 
acquire  the  weight  of  a  moral  law.  The  man 
who  wears  a  patched  coat  and  only  wears 
gloves  when  the  weather  makes  the  gloves  a 
physical  comfort,  must  be  an  inferior  sort  of 


212  What  We  Lose 

man,  because  he  has  evidently  not  kept  pace 
with  his  fellows  in  the  race.  In  the  Old  World 
the  struggle  for  money  and  material  prosperity 
has  not  been  so  exhausting  these  last  few  hun- 
dred years,  and  has  not  excluded  spiritual 
things  so  completely  as  with  us ;  and  there  we 
find,  in  consequence,  that  the  outward  signs  of 
the  ability  to  earn  money  are  not  deemed  so 
essential  to  the  fixing  of  a  man's  standing  in 
the  community.  To  wear  a  patched  coat  and 
to  work  with  one's  hands  in  a  garden,  do  not 
in  themselves  stamp  a  man  in  France  and  Eng- 
land as  an  inferior  person.  I  was  particularly 
impressed  with  this  when  some  years  ago  an 
English  clergyman — a  man  of  much  culture 
and  reading — gave  up  his  cure  in  a  fashionable 
summer  resort  not  a  thousand  miles  from  New 
York,  because  he  found  that  his  love  of  work- 
ing his  own  garden  was  looked  upon  with  sur- 
prise, to  use  no  stronger  term,  and  he  was  made 
to  feel  that  his  parishioners  considered  the 
dignity  of  their  church  endangered  by  their 
pastor's  curious  fancy  for  digging.  In  Eng- 
land it  had  been  his  custom  to  raise  his  own 
vegetables.  Here  it  was  not  thought  dignified 


And  What  We  Gain         213 

for  the  pastor  to  work  like  a  common  laborer, 
hanging  his  coat  on  a  bramble  bush,  and  one 
of  his  vestrymen  hinted  that  the  church  might 
be  able  to  squeeze  out  enough  money  to  pro- 
vide a  gardener  for  the  pastor.  The  pastor  did 
not  want  a  gardener,  and  he  gave  way  to  some 
one  else  who  would  keep  his  coat  on  and  his 
hands  clean.  It  may  be  said  that  instead  of 
resigning  his  place,  this  victim  of  the  Philistines 
should  have  preached  a  few  sermons  upon  the 
dignity  of  manual  labor,  recalling  the  fact  that 
Christ  was  a  carpenter;  but  the  depth  of  such 
prejudice  is  beyond  the  plummet  of  argument. 
The  commonplace  mind  is  never  tolerant  of 
other  views.  For  years  manual  labor,  because 
it  does  not  bring  in  much  money,  has  been 
looked  upon  as  the  work  of  the  inferior  man ; 
the  ambition  of  every  one  has  been  to  get 
away  from  it.  The  farmer's  son  deserts  the 
farm ;  the  carpenter's  son  leaves  the  bench ; 
any  occupation  which  allows  a  man  to  wear  a 
coat  and  keep  his  hands  white  is  considered 
better  than  manual  labor.  It  is  commonly 
considered  that  of  all  the  occupations  farming 
pays  the  least  money  in  proportion  to  the  care 


What  We  Lose  . 


and  labor  expended.  Therefore  farming  and 
gardening  must  be  the  last  occupation  that  a 
man  of  parts  will  take  up.  To  devote  hours 
to  digging  or  gardening  or  any  work  which  a 
laborer  at  a  dollar  a  day  will  accomplish  as  well, 
is  considered  folly  when  a  dollar  an  hour  can 
be  earned  at  other  work.  If  the  accumulation 
of  money  is  the  end  of  life,  I  suppose  that 
public  opinion  is  right;  but  even  upon  this 
point  it  may  be  doubted  whether  or  not  in  the 
long  run  the  man  who  acquires  sound  health 
by  systematic  out-door  work  does  not  stand  a 
better  chance  in  the  race  for  money  than  nine 
tenths  of  his  fellow-men. 

Dress  is  not  an  art  founded  upon  fixed  princi- 
ples of  beauty.  What  one  generation  admires 
the  next  will  ridicule.  Perhaps  the  time  will 
come  when  patches  will  be  in  fashion.  We 
already  find  it  possible  to  admire  Oriental  rugs 
in  tatters,  and  vast  sums  are  paid  for  bits  of  Per- 
sian carpets  about  to  fall  in  pieces.  Does  not 
every  one  know  that  should  the  Prince  of  Wales 
appear  in  public  with  a  shabby  coat  and  a  patch 
upon  both  knees,  that  patches  would  appear 
upon  every  fashionable  knee,  and  t*hat  unr 


And  What  We  Gain         215 

patched  trousers  would  be  viewed  with  suspic- 
ion? There  are  no  end  of  stories  which  illustrate 
how  strongly  the  traits  of  our  simian  ancestors 
are  marked  in  us.  Some  years  ago  the  Prince 
of  Wales  could  not  find  the  overcoat  he  wanted 
when  about  to  leave  for  the  opera  one  evening, 
and  picked  up  a  rough  shooting-jacket  he  had 
brought  from  the  Highlands;  result:  ulsters 
appeared  all  over  the  world.  More  recently, 
the  same  leader  of  fashion  dropped  one  glove 
in  the  street  and  put  on  another  of  a  different 
color;  result:  people  begin  to  wear  gloves  that 
do  not  match.  The  Prince  of  Wales  is  grow- 
ing bald ;  result :  the  sale  of  magic  hair-growers 
has  fallen  off  by  two  thirds  in  the  United 
Kingdom.  The  traces  of  the  monkey  are  to 
be  seen  all  around  us.  Not  one  man  in  a  thou- 
sand knows  that  the  two  buttons  to  be  found 
upon  the  backs  of  most  coats  date  from  the 
time  when  men  needed  these  buttons  to  hold 
on  their  sword-belts.  The  swords  have  gone, 
but  we  continue  to  insist  upon  the  buttons 
because  "everybody  wears  them."  The  necktie 
once  held  the  shirt  together  at  the  throat,  and 
thus  served  a  useful  purpose.  Buttons  now  fill 


216  What  We  Lose 

the  office,  but  the  tie  survives,  and  the  man 
who  goes  without  a  necktie  is  held  up  to  scorn. 
A  score  of  such  customs  which  have  now  no 
other  warrant  than  that  "every  one  else  does 
so  "  might  be  given.  Yet  it  is  more  difficult  to 
teach  a  boy  the  necessity  of  truth  than  the 
folly  of  too  much  attention  to  his  clothes.  As 
things  go  there  is  a  reason  in  the  present  insist- 
ence upon  fine  feathers;  the  man  who  wishes 
to  be  well  paid  must  make  people  believe  that 
he  is  worth  large  pay  and  that  other  people 
think  so.  If  he  is  richly  dressed,  it  is  a  sign 
that  his  services  have  been  considered  worthy 
of  a  rich  reward.  "It  pays  to  dress  well,"  has 
become  a  maxim  with  us,  and  there  is  reason 
behind  it.  It  does  pay — in  money.  But  we 
must  take  care  that  we  do  not  pay  too  much 
for  that  money. 

The  matter  of  clothes  has  been  suggested  as 
offering  possible  obstacles  to  a  life  without 
money,  and  the  topic  has  been  treated  so  fully, 
and  so  much  better  by  Thoreau  than  I  can 
hope  to  treat  it,  that  I  will  venture  to  quote  at 
length  from  his  Walden.  It  is  begging  the 
question  to  assume  that  because  one  may  at- 


And  What  We  Gain          217 

tempt  to  get  a  great  deal  of  life  out  of  com- 
paratively few  dollars,  the  result  will  be  rags 
for  the  family.  Thoreau  is  eloquent  upon  the 
subject  of  patches,  and  could  see  nothing  to  be 
ashamed  of  in  them.  Since  his  day  the  matter 
has  been  largely  simplified  for  the  weaklings 
who  do  not  like  to  excite  comment  even  of 
people  who  have  never  pondered  upon  the 
beauty  of  patches.  Clothing,  and  every  other 
commodity  which  is  largely  made  by  machinery, 
has  been  cheapened  in  proportion  to  the  part 
of  the  work  performed  by  machinery,  and  every 
year  this  part  grows  larger  and  larger.  Conse- 
quently, the  amount  of  clothing  which  can  be 
bought  for  a  day's  labor  is  six  or  seven  times 
as  great  as  it  was  one  hundred  years  ago,  and 
three  or  four  times  as  great  as  when  the  hermit 
of  Walden  jotted  down  sarcastic  notes  about 
the  man  who  was  not  ashamed  of  going  around 
with  a  broken  leg,  but  very  much  ashamed  of  a 
broken  pair  of  trousers.  This  process  is  going 
on  so  steadily  that  it  is  easy  to  foresee  the  day 
when  a  few  days'  work  upon  the  part  of  the 
laborer  or  mechanic  will  be  sufficient  to  pro- 
vide himself  and  his  family  with  unpatched  and 


2i8  What  We  Lose 

well-made  clothing  for  the  year.  I  have  a  pre- 
judice against  patches  to  the  extent  of  disliking 
anything  that  will  attract  the  attention  of  Tom, 
Dick,  and  Harry,  and  their  female  counterparts. 
If  for  a  few  dollars  spent  in  clothing  which  is 
whole  I  can  save  myself  from  their  attentions, 
it  is  money  well  spent,  and  the  same  thing  holds 
good  with  regard  to  the  clothing  of  my  wife 
and  children.  We  might  spend  a  few  dollars 
less  every  year  upon  bonnets  and  dresses,  but 
the  question  is:  Would  it  pay?  We  are  not 
living  in  the  woods,  and  our  desire  is  to  avoid 
attracting  attention. 

To  go  back  to  Thoreau,  he  says  in  Walden  : 

As  for  clothing,  to  come  at  once  to  the  practical 
part  of  the  question,  perhaps  we  are  led  oftener  by 
the  love  of  novelty,  and  a  regard  for  the  opinions 
of  men  in  procuring  it  than  by  a  true  utility.  Let 
him  who  has  work  to  do  recollect  that  the  object 
of  clothing  is,  first,  to  retain  the  vital  heat,  and, 
secondly,  in  this  state  of  society,  to  cover  naked- 
ness, and  he  may  judge  how  much  of  any  necessary 
or  important  work  may  be  accomplished  without 
adding  to  his  wardrobe.  Kings  and  queens  who 
wear  a  suit  but  once,  though  made  by  some  tailor 


And  What  We  Gain         219 

or  dressmaker  to  their  majesties,  cannot  know  the 
comfort  of  wearing  a  suit  that  fits.  They  are  no 
better  than  wooden  horses  to  hang  the  clean  clothes 
on.  Every  day  our  garments  become  more  assimi- 
lated to  ourselves,  receiving  the  impress  of  the 
wearer's  character,  until  we  hesitate  to  lay  them 
aside,  without  such  delay  and  medical  appliances 
and  some  such  solemnity  even  as  our  bodies.  No 
man  ever  stood  the  lower  in  my  estimation  for  hav- 
ing a  patch  in  his  clothes,  yet  I  am  sure  that  there 
is  greater  anxiety,  commonly,  to  have  fashionable, 
or  at  least  clean  and  unpatched  clothes,  than  to 
have  a  sound  conscience.  But  even  if  the  rent  is 
not  mended,  perhaps  the  worst  vice  betrayed  is  im- 
providence. I  sometimes  try  my  acquaintances  by 
such  tests  as  this:  Who  would  wear  a  patch,  or  two 
extra  seams  only,  over  the  knee  ?  Most  behaved 
as  if  they  believed  that  their  prospects  for  life 
would  be  ruined  if  they  should  do  it.  It  would  be 
easier  for  them  to  hobble  to  town  with  a  broken  leg 
than  with  a  broken  pantaloon.  Often  if  an  acci- 
dent happens  to  a  gentleman's  legs,  they  can  be 
mended,  but  if  a  similar  accident  happens  to  the 
legs  of  his  pantaloons  there  is  no  help  for  it,  for  he 
considers  not  what  is  truly  respectable,  but  what  is 
respected.  We  know  but  few  men,  a  great  many 


220  What  We  Lose 

coats  and  breeches.  Dress  a  scarecrow  in  your 
last  shift,  you  standing  shiftless  by,  who  would  not 
sooner  salute  the  scarecrow?  Passing  a  cornfield 
the  other  day  close  by  a  hat  and  coat  on  a  stake,  I 
recognized  the  owner  of  the  farm.  He  was  only  a 
little  more  weather-beaten  than  when  I  saw  him 
last.  I  have  heard  of  a  dog  that  barked  at  every 
stranger  who  approached  his  master's  premises  with 
clothes  on,  but  was  easily  quieted  by  a  naked  thief. 
It  is  an  interesting  question  how  far  men  would  re- 
tain their  relative  rank  if  they  were  divested  of 
their  clothes.  Could  you  in  such  a  case  tell  surely 
of  any  company  of  civilized  men  which  belonged  to 
the  most  respected  class?  When  Madame  Pfeiffer, 
in  her  adventurous  travels  round  the  world  from 
east  to  west,  had  got  so  near  home  as  Asiatic 
Russia  she  says  she  felt  the  necessity  of  wearing 
other  than  a  travelling  dress  when  she  went  to 
meet  the  authorities,  for  she  "  was  now  in  a  civil- 
ized county  where  people  are  judged  of  by  their 
clothes!  "  Even  in  our  democratic  New  England 
towns  the  accidental  possession  of  wealth  and  its 
manifestation  in  dress  and  equipage  alone  obtain  for 
the  possessor  almost  universal  respect.  But  they  who 
yield  such  respect,  numerous  as  they  are,  are  so  far 
heathen,  and  need  to  have  a  missionary  sent  to  them. 


And  What  We  Gain         221 

A  man  who  has  at  length  found  something  to  do 
will  not  need  to  get  a  new  suit  to  do  it  in;  for  him 
the  old  will  do,  that  has  lain  dusty  in  the  garret  for 
an  indeterminate  period.  Old  shoes  will  serve  a 
hero  longer  than  they  have  served  his  valet  —  if  a 
hero  ever  has  a  valet ;  —  bare  feet  are  older  than 
shoes,  and  he  can  make  them  do.  Only  they  who 
go  to  soirees  and  legislative  halls  must  have  new 
coats,  coats  to  change  as  often  as  the  man  changes 
in  them.  But  if  my  jacket  and  trousers,  my  hat 
and  shoes,  are  fit  to  worship  God  in,  they  will  do, 
will  they  not  ?  Who  ever  saw  his  old  clothes,  his 
old  coat  actually  worn  out,  resolved  into  its  primi- 
tive elements,  so  that  it  was  not  a  deed  of  charity 
to  bestow  it  on  some  poor  boy,  by  him,  perchance, 
to  be  bestowed  on  one  poorer  still,  or  shall  we  say 
richer,  who  could  do  with  less  ?  I  say  beware  of 
all  enterprises  that  require  new  clothes  and  not 
rather  a  new  wearer  of  clothes.  If  there  is  not  a 
new  man,  how  can  the  new  clothes  be  made  to  fit  ? 
If  you  have  any  enterprise  before  you,  try  it  in 
your  old  clothes.  All  men  want  not  something  to 
do  with,  but  something  to  do,  or  rather  something 
to  be.  Perhaps  we  should  never  procure  a  new 
suit,  however  dirty  or  ragged  the  old,  until  we  have 
so  conducted,  so  enterprised  or  sailed  in  some  way, 


222  What  We  Lose 

that  we  feel  like  new  men  in  the  old,  and  that  to 
retain  it  would  be  like  keeping  new  wine  in  old 
bottles.  Our  moulting  season,  like  that  of  the 
fowls,  must  be  a  crisis  in  our  lives.  The  loon  re- 
tires to  solitary  ponds  to  spend  it.  Thus,  also,  the 
snake  casts  its  slough,  and  the  caterpillar  its  wormy 
coat,  by  an  internal  industry  and  expansion;  for 
clothes  are  but  our  outmost  cuticle  and  mortal  coil. 
Otherwise  we  shall  be  found  sailing  under  false 
colors,  and  be  inevitably  cashiered  at  last  by  our 
own  opinion  as  well  as  that  of  mankind. 

When  I  ask  for  a  garment  of  a  particular  form, 
my  tailoress  tells  me  gravely:  "  They  do  not  make 
them  so  now,"  not  emphasizing  the  "  They  "  at  all, 
as  if  she  quoted  an  authority  as  impersonal  as  the 
Fates,  and  I  find  it  difficult  to  get  made  what  I 
want,  simply  because  she  cannot  believe  that  I 
mean  what  I  say — that  I  am  so  rash.  When  I  hear 
this  oracular  sentence,  I  am  for  a  moment  ab- 
sorbed in  thought,  emphasizing  to  myself  each 
word  separately  that  I  may  come  at  the  meaning 
of  it,  that  I  may  find  out  by  what  degree  of 
consanguinity  "They"  are  related  to  me,  and 
what  authority  they  may  have  in  an  affair  which 
affects  me  so  nearly;  and  finally,  I  am  inclined  to 
answer  her  with  equal  mystery,  and  without  any 


And  What  We  Gain         223 

more  emphasis  on  the  "  They."  It  is  true  they 
did  not  make  them  so  recently,  but  they  do  so  now. 
We  worship  not  the  Graces,  nor  the  Parcae,  but 
Fashion.  She  spins  and  weaves  and  cuts  with  full 
authority.  The  head  monkey  at  Paris  puts  on  a 
traveller's  cap,  and  all  the  monkeys  in  America  do 
the  same.  I  sometimes  despair  of  getting  anything 
quite  simple  and  honest  done  in  this  world  by  the 
help  of  men.  They  would  have  to  be  passed 
through  a  powerful  press  first,  to  squeeze  their  old 
notions  out  of  them,  so  that  they  would  not  soon 
get  upon  their  legs  again,  and  then  there  would  be 
some  one  in  the  company  with  a  maggot  in  his  head, 
hatched  from  an  egg  deposited  there  nobody  knows 
when,  for  not  even  fire  kills  these  things,  and  you 
would  have  lost  your  labor. 

On  the  whole,  I  think  that  it  cannot  be  main- 
tained that  dressing  has  in  this  or  any  other  country 
risen  to  the  dignity  of  an  art.  At  present  men 
make  shift  to  wear  what  they  can  get.  Like  ship- 
wrecked sailors  they  put  on  what  they  can  find  on 
the  beach,  and  at  a  little  distance,  whether  of  space 
or  time,  laugh  at  each  other's  masquerade.  Every 
generation  laughs  at  the  old  fashions,  but  follows 
religiously  the  new.  We  are  amused  at  beholding 
the  costume  of  Henry  VIII.  or  Queen  Elizabeth, 


224  What  We  Lose 

as  much  as  if  it  was  that  of  the  King  and  Queen  of 
the  Cannibal  Islands.  All  costume  off  a  man  is 
pitiful  or  grotesque.  It  is  only  the  serious  eye 
peering  from  and  the  sincere  life  passed  within  it 
which  restrain  laughter  and  consecrate  the  costume 
of  any  people.  Let  Harlequin  be  taken  with  a  fit 
of  the  colic,  and  the  trappings  will  have  to  serve 
that  mood  too.  When  the  soldier  is  hit  by  a  can- 
non-ball, rags  are  as  becoming  as  purple.  The 
childish  and  savage  taste  of  men  and  women  for 
new  patterns  keeps  how  many  shaking  and  squint- 
ing through  kaleidoscopes  that  they  may  discover 
the  particular  figure  which  this  generation  requires 
to-day. 

In  writing  of  clothing,  I  wish,  however,  to 
make  plain  that  inexpensive  clothes  do  not 
imply  shabbiness  or  carelessness  in  personal 
appearance,  but  simply  that  the  blouse  of  the 
French  workman  is  better  than  the  dirty  linen 
shirt  of  the  American  workman.  To  be  ap- 
propriately dressed  does  not,  in  these  days  of 
corduroys  and  flannel  shirts,  cost  either  much 
money  or  time,  and  the  man  who  allows  him- 
self and  his  children  to  go  dressed  as  scare- 
crows misses  one  element  for  good  in  country 


And  What  We  Gain          225 

life.  Clothing  which  may  be  out  of  place  in 
town  may  become  just  the  thing  in  the  country 
life,  even  though  its  cost  is  insignificant  as 
compared  to  the  dress  of  the  city  man.  Were 
my  income  twenty  times  as  large  as  it  is,  I 
should  not  care  to  dress  better  than  I  do.  For 
the  children  blue-flannel  dresses  are  cheap,  but 
could  anything  be  more  appropriate  for  the  life 
on  the  water  which  they  lead? 

In  one  of  his  books  on  fishing,  Frank  Forester 
(H.  W.  Herbert)  says  that  if  he  led  the  life  of 
a  backwoodsman,  and  dwelt  in  a  cabin  on  top 
of  a  mountain,  he  should  still  put  on  evening 
dress  for  dinner.  This  is  an  exaggeration,  but 
there  is  truth  behind.  Slovenly,  ill-fitting, 
dirty,  ragged  clothing  may  lead  to  slovenly 
habits  of  mind,  and  are  not  the  necessary  ac- 
companiments of  such  life  as  I  prescribe. 

One  of  my  critics,  for  whom  I  have  great 
personal  deference,  tells  me  that  my  theory  of 
life  tends  to  a  relapse  into  barbarism,  and  in 
illustration  of  the  truth  of  his  position,  he 
pointed  one  evening  to  a  music-stand  near  the 
piano  with  the  remark:  "With  your  ideas,  that 
stand  would  never  be  made  of  mahogany  and 


226  What  We  Lose 

elaborately  ornamented,  but  would  be  of  pine, 
perhaps  stained." 

Well,  suppose  it  were.  I  am  inclined  to  think 
that  the  greater  use  of  common  material,  stained 
pine  and  other  cheap  wood,  in  the  houses  of 
people  of  taste  is  a  distinct  indication  of  a 
needed  reform.  Take  the  little  music-stand  in 
illustration.  Its  purpose  is  to  hold  a  number 
of  music  books  and  loose  sheets  of  music.  It 
has  three  or  four  shelves,  and  is  so  made  as  to 
stand  in  a  corner  near  the  piano  and  take  up 
but  little  room.  It  is  made  of  mahogany, 
highly  polished,  and  is  ornamented,  as  most 
people  would  call  it,  with  a  sort  of  stucco- 
beading,  which  to  me  is  distasteful.  But  it 
cost  money,  and  therefore  has  its  reasons  for 
being  in  certain  eyes.  I  have  forgotten  what 
it  cost  me — probably  from  fifteen  to  twenty 
dollars.  Thanks  to  the  growth  of  good  taste, 
I  can  to-day  pick  out  from  half  a  dozen  books 
I  know  of  a  little  design  for  a  music-stand,  or 
sketch  it  myself,  and  the  nearest  carpenter  will 
make  the  thing  in  a  day  at  a  cost  of  two  or 
three  dollars  for  wood,  labor,  and  staining. 
The  result  will  be  something  which  is  pleasanter 


And  What  We  Gain         227 

to  my  eye,  and  I  will  venture  to  say  to  the 
eyes  of  nine  out  of  ten  persons  of  educated 
taste.  The  other  fifteen  or  sixteen  dollars 
saved  may  be  devoted  to  books,  pictures, 
music — any  of  the  things  which  really  add 
something  to  life.  The  music-stand  of  stained 
pine  will  do  its  work  just  as  well  as  the  one 
made  of  mahogany,  inlaid  with  stucco  beading 
— in  fact  it  will  do  it  better,  for  it  will  not  need 
a  periodic  rubbing  on  the  part  of  the  parlor 
maid  to  keep  it  bright  and  polished,  and  it  can 
be  moved  about  when  occasion  demands,  as  it 
weighs  but  little.  It  is  as  strong  as  the  other, 
and  it  will  last  a  hundred  years. 

The  music-stand  is  typical  of  the  whole 
theory  upon  which  I  have  preached  so  persist- 
ently and  to  some  extent  practised.  In  every 
affair  of  life,  we  have  been  insisting  upon 
mahogany,  with  stucco  trimmings,  and  wasting 
money  which  might  have  gone  far  towards  buy- 
ing books  and  sunlight.  It  is  a  hopeful  sign 
when  we  find  the  saving  remnant,  as  Matthew 
Arnold  has  it,  taking  to  stained  pine  instead  of 
mahogany  with  stucco  trimmings.  I  have  a 
sincere  love  for  pretty  things.  I  will  walk  a 


228  What  We  Lose 

mile  to  see  a  set  of  china  exquisitely  decorated. 
Some  Persian  rugs  give  me  as  much  pleasure  as 
many  pictures.  A  noble  house  is  something 
that  I  should  like  to  own.  But  there  has  al- 
ways been  the  question :  Is  it  going  to  pay  me 
to  have  china  at  my  table  which  costs  one  hun- 
dred dollars,  or  a  rug  before  the  fire  which 
costs  half  as  much  again?  It  is  all  a  question 
of  whether  I  will  give  up  something  else.  Shall 
I  exchange  a  week  of  sunlight  for  the  sake  of 
that  dinner  service,  and  another  week  for  the 
sake  of  that  rug,  and  another  month  for  the 
sake  of  living  in  the  house  which  pleases  me? 
— and  so  on.  After  weighing  the  losses  and 
the  gains  pretty  carefully,  I  say  No. 

A  far  more  serious  objection  which  is  made 
to  my  plan  of  life  is  that  it  is  not  fair  to  my 
children.  I  have  had  the  advantage  of  good 
schools,  I  have  been  sent  abroad  to  study,  I 
have  had  years  of  life  among  people  who  know 
something  of  books  and  art.  It  may  be  very 
well  for  me  to  desert  from  the  ranks,  and  settle 
down  in  the  woods,  intellectually  speaking,  of 
this  end  of  Long  Island.  This  is  a  serious 
question.  Had  I  never  conceived  the  idea  of 


And  What  We  Gain          229 

seceding,  I  should  at  this  time  be  paying  rent 
for  a  little  house  or  an  apartment  in  some  part 
of  New  York  City,  or  what  is  more  likely 
I  should  live  most  of  the  year  in  some  of  the 
little  settlements,  within  easy  railroad  distance 
from  New  York,  which  dot  the  Jersey  hills. 
Years  ago,  before  my  eyes  were  opened,  I  paid 
seven  hundred  dollars  a  year  for  a  cottage  in 
just  such  a  settlement.  With  that  expense 
and  the  cost  of  three  months'  board  in  New 
York, — for  newspaper  work  makes  it  necessary 
for  me  to  be  in  New  York  at  least  that  length 
of  time, — I  may  say  that  my  rent  was  about  a 
thousand  dollars,  a  moderate  sum,  and  yet  large 
enough,  when  taken  in  connection  with  the 
other  expenses  of  servants  and  housekeeping, 
to  necessitate  pretty  steady  drudgery  upon  my 
part  the  year  round.  In  the  meantime,  my 
children  attended  a  little  school  which  was 
quite  as  good  as  any  preparatory  school  of  the 
same  type  to  be  found  in  the  city. 

From  the  experience  that  I  have  had  with 
children's  schools,  I  have  been  led  to  think 
that  the  most  pretentious  are  often  the  least 
productive  of  any  good  to  the  child,  and  I 


230  What  We  Lose 

presume  that  most  parents  will  agree  in  con- 
demning the  ultra-fashionable  and  most  ex- 
pensive schools  as  wonderfully  well  designed  to 
make  a  child  all  that  it  should  not  be.  With 
the  primary  schools  there  is  scarcely  any  choice 
to  be  made  between  those  of  the  city  and  the 
country.  The  home  life  of  the  child  before 
twelve  years  of  age  counts  for  so  much  in  form- 
ing the  character  and  the  intellectual  judgment 
of  the  child  that  schools,  good  or  bad,  are  not 
of  great  weight.  If  anything,  the  little,  un- 
pretentious district  school  of  the  smallest 
country  village  is  better  than  the  city  school, 
because  there  are  fewer  children,  and  conse- 
quently their  idiosyncrasies  are  more  likely  to 
have  full  play.  The  worst  that  can  be  said  of 
our  public-school  system  is  that  it  tends  to 
eliminate  individuality  and  make  each  child  the 
counterpart  of  the  standard  child,  often  a  very 
low  standard.  At  the  most  impressionable 
age,  we  send  our  children  to  schools  in  which 
the  effort  is  to  turn  out  boys  and  girls  all 
knowing  the  same  thing,  taking  the  same  view 
of  every  topic,  and  approaching  more  closely 
to  a  type  with  which  educated  persons  have 


And  What  We  Gain         231 

really  very  little  sympathy.  It  is  a  standard 
in  which  the  commonplace  dominates.  Mat- 
thew Arnold  attributed  the  uninteresting  char- 
acter and  monotony  of  much  of  the  casual  talk 
which  he  heard  in  our  public  places  to  the  uni- 
versal custom  of  sending  children  to  the  public 
schools.  Spencer  holds  that  there  is  no  harm, 
but  rather  good,  in  allowing  a  child  to  grow  up 
a  healthy  animal  almost  ignorant  of  ordinary 
school  rudiments  until  he  reaches  the  age  of 
eight  or  ten.  By  that  time  it  is  to  be  hoped 
that  he  will  be  less  plastic,  and  that  the  in- 
fluence of  home  surroundings  will  have  brought 
out  an  individuality  not  to  be  effaced  by  the 
routine  schooling  of  the  next  few  years.  The 
tendency  to  do  away  with  book  lessons  for 
young  children  has  always  seemed  to  me  one 
of  the  healthiest  signs  of  the  day,  and  with  my 
own  children  I  have  had  no  compunctions  of 
conscience  in  teaching  them  to  swim  and  row 
and  to  love  fishing  and  hunting  before  they 
knew  how  to  read  or  write  a  line.  The  worst 
that  could  happen  to  them  would  be  to  have 
them  turn  out  to  be  counterparts  of  the  com- 
monplace type  I  find  in  most  of  the  public 


232  What  We  Lose 

schools.  The  boy  who  at  the  age  of  twelve  is 
a  good  swimmer,  a  good  sailor,  fond  of  shoot- 
ing, fishing,  and  out-door  sports,  is  able  to  read 
and  write,  and  has  a  genuine  love  and  appre- 
ciation of  a  score  of  good  books,  and  not  a 
little  good  music,  is  pretty  sure  to  get  along  in 
whatever  school  he  finds  himself,  for  whatever 
he  knows,  he  will  know  thoroughly  and  not 
superficially. 

The  real  school  is,  after  all,  the  home  school, 
of  which  the  father  and  mother  are  the  head 
teachers.  Here,  again,  is  one  reason  why  life 
in  the  wilderness  is  an  advantage  to  the  child. 
He  is  with  his  father  most  of  the  day,  and  if 
the  household  has  any  atmosphere  of  culture 
about  it,  he  is  pretty  sure  to  absorb  some  of  it. 
In  city  life,  the  father  may  be  seen  at  break- 
fast, and  possibly  for  a  moment  before  the 
children  go  to  bed,  but  that,  as  a  rule,  is  all, 
except  on  Sunday,  when  he  is  often  too  tired 
to  bother  with  the  children  and  too  unfamiliar 
with  them  to  take  much  interest  in  their  do- 
ings. More  than  half  the  pleasure  that  I  get 
out  of  my  country  life  is  due  to  constant  asso- 
ciation with  the  children.  The  boat  seldom 


And  What  We  Gain         233 

sails  away  without  three  or  four  of  them  on 
board,  they  are  never  left  behind  when  we  start 
for  a  day's  outing,  they  know  as  much  about 
the  garden  as  I  do,  and  probably  to  this  active 
open-air  life  they  owe  largely  their  strength 
and  ruddy  cheeks.  I  have  tried  both  ways  of 
life,  and  whatever  may  be  said  in  favor  of  the 
city  so  far  as  adults  are  concerned,  there  are 
no  two  ways  of  thinking  so  far  as  concerns  the 
children.  After  a  few  years,  when  it  becomes 
necessary  to  fit  them  for  active  life,  I  suppose 
that  the  boys  will  go  to  college,  and  I  am  not 
at  all  afraid  of  their  ability  to  hold  their  own 
and  to  get  all  the  good  that  may  be  obtained 
by  a  struggle  for  wealth  if  they  should  choose 
to  strive  for  it.  As  to  the  girls,  it  may  be 
said  that  in  the  wilderness  they  would  grow 
up  ignorant  of  most  accomplishments  valued 
in  young  women,  such  as  music,  painting,  etc. 
But  here,  again,  it  is  a  question  of  home  in- 
fluence. Inasmuch  as  my  girls  will  hear  at 
home  twenty  times  as  much  good  music  as 
the  average  New  York  girl  even  in  fashionable 
life  is  likely  to  hear,  and  a  hundred  times 
as  much  talk  about  it,  there  is  no  fear  that  if 


234  What  We  Lose 

they  have  any  capacity  for  the  divine  art,  it 
will  not  make  itself  felt.  It  is  so  rare  to  find 
among  even  our  so-called  best  people  of  the 
town  any  understanding  or  appreciation  of  the 
meaning  and  beauty  of  literature,  music,  and 
art,  that  the  fear  that  my  children  may  not 
know  something  of  these  things  because  they 
do  not  habitually  associate  with  these  so-called 
best  people,  seems  really  comical  to  me.  The 
well-to-do  people  of  the  city  will  spend  money 
upon  anything  but  art ;  they  will  cheerfully 
lavish  dollars  upon  mahogany  furniture  with 
stucco  veneering,  but  it  will  never  occur  to 
them  to  try  pine  and  have  their  children  taught 
to  understand  a  Beethoven  sonata.  It  has 
been  said  that  under  such  a  system  as  mine 
my  boys  are  likely  to  grow  up  fishermen,  and 
nothing  more,  and  that  my  girls  will  probably 
know  how  to  make  good  butter.  Even  taking 
this  material  view  of  the  matter,  I  am  not  at 
all  sure  but  that  an  intelligent  fisherman  who 
lives  in  comfort  the  year  round,  harassed  by  no 
anxieties,  and  getting  the  most  out  of  the  sea- 
breeze  and  the  sunlight,  has  not  a  far  better  lot 
than  his  city  brother  who  wears  more  expen- 


And  What  We  Gain         235 

sive  clothes  and  talks  about  the  price  of  lard  or 
leather  instead  of  the  fish  and  the  tides.  As 
to  the  essentials  of  intellectual  culture,  the 
fisherman  with  a  taste  for  reading  and  his  long 
winter  evenings  has  by  far  the  greater  oppor- 
tunities. 

With  regard  to  the  physical  advantages  of 
country  life  modern  science  has  brought  statis- 
tics to  bear.  Not  a  physician  can  be  found 
who  does  not  preach  the  value  of  better  air 
than  can  be  found  in  cities. 

Upon  this  subject  Dr.  G.  B.  Barren,  in  a 
paper  entitled  "Town-Life  as  a  Cause  of  De- 
generacy," read  at  a  recent  meeting  of  the 
British  Association,  at  Bath,  England,  said : 

I  venture  to  advance  the  proposition  that  the 
"  vital  force  "  of  the  town-dweller  is  inferior  to  the 
"  vital  force  "  of  the  countryman.  The  evidence 
of  this  is  to  be  found  in  a  variety  of  ways.  The 
general  unfitness  and  incapability  of  the  dwellers  in 
our  large  hives  of  industry  to  undergo  continued 
violent  exertion,  or  to  sustain  long  endurance  of 
fatigue,  is  a  fact  requiring  little  evidence  to  estab- 
lish; nor  can  they  tolerate  the  withdrawal  of  food 
under  sustained  physical  effort  for  any  prolonged 


236  What  We  Lose 

period  as  compared  with  the  dwellers  in  rural  dis- 
tricts. It  may  be  affirmed  also  that,  through  the 
various  factors  at  work  night  and  day  upon  the  con- 
stitution of  the  poorer  class  of  town-dwellers, 
various  forms  of  disease  are  developed,  of  which 
pulmonary  consumption  is  the  most  familiar,  and 
which  is  doing  its  fatal  work  in  a  lavish  and  uner- 
ring fashion.  Thus  it  may  be  conceded  as  an 
established  fact  that  the  townsman  is,  on  the  whole, 
constitutionally  dwarfed  in  tone,  and  his  life,  man 
for  man,  shorter,  weaker,  and  more  uncertain  than 
the  countryman's.  I  hold  the  opinion  that  the 
deterioration  is  more  in  physique,  as  implied  in 
the  loss  of  physical  or  muscular  power  of  the 
body,  the  attenuation  of  muscular  fibre,  the  loss 
of  integrity  of  cell-structure,  and  consequent  liabil- 
ity to  the  invasion  of  disease,  rather  than  in  actual 
stature  of  inch-measurement.  The  true  causes  of 
this  deterioration  are  neither  very  obscure  nor  far 
to  seek.  They  are  bad  air  and  bad  habits. 

Taking  these  causes  in  the  order  in  which  I  have 
placed  them,  but  without  reference  to  their  relative 
intensity,  I  think  bad  air  is  a  potent  factor  of  en- 
feeblement.  Included  in  the  phrase  "bad  air" 
are  bad  sanitation  and  overcrowding.  I  have  no 
doubt  in  my  mind  that  it  has  a  powerful  and  never- 


And  What  We  Gain         237 

ceasing  action,  paramount  and  decisive,  on  the 
physical  frames  of  young  and  old  town-dwellers, 
producing  deterioration  of  physique,  lowered  vi- 
tality, and  constitutional  decay.  For  over  thirty 
years  I  have  been  hammering  away  at  this  question 
of  "  bad  air  "  and  "  bad  sanitation  "  as  the  prime 
causes  of  impairment  of  health  and  race,  and  the 
more  I  consider  it  the  more  I  am  convinced  of  the 
soundness  of  my  conclusions.  A  great  deal  has 
been  said  on  this  subject,  and  it  is  not  difficult  to 
adduce  conclusive  evidence  from  a  large  variety  of 
reliable  sources  in  proof  of  the  deleterious  effects 
of  impure  air  on  the  animal  economy.  Consump- 
tion is  the  best  type  of  degenerative  action  and  loss 
of  vital  energy.  It  stands  out  in  bold  relief  as  the 
disease  most  rife  wherever  foul  air  exists.  The 
significance  and  value  of  fresh  air  were  recognized 
by  the  old  fathers  of  medicine.  Hippocrates  was 
accustomed  to  advise  a  walk  in  fresh  air  of  ten  or 
fifteen  miles  daily.  Aretaeus,  Celsus,  and  Pliny 
speak  of  the  good  effect  of  fresh  air;  and  our  great 
English  physician,  Sydenham,  did  the  same  thing. 
Dr.  Guy  found  that  of  104  compositors  who  worked 
in  rooms  of  less  than  500  cubic  feet  of  air  for  each 
person,  12.5  per  cent  had  had  spitting  of  blood;  of 
115  in  rooms  of  from  500  to  600  cubic  feet,  4.35  per 


238  What  We  Lose 

cent,  showed  signs  of  consumption ;  and  in  100  who 
worked  in  rooms  of  more  than  600  cubic  feet 
capacity,  less  than  2  per  cent,  had  spit  blood. 
Consumption  is  only  one  of  the  long  list  of  evils  to 
which  the  town-dweller  is  exposed.  It  may  be  well 
to  mention  that  the  Labrador  fishermen  and  the 
fishermen  of  the  Hebrides,  with  plenty  of  fresh  air, 
are  practically  exempt  from  this  disease.  The 
absence  of  pure  air  acts  upon  the  animal  economy 
in  much  the  same  way  as  the  withdrawal  of  light 
on  plants,  the  result  being  pallor  and  feebleness  of 
constitutional  vigor.  This  effect  ramifies  in  every 
direction;  the  tissues  of  which  the  human  body  is 
composed  lose  their  tonicity  and  contractile  power, 
and  even  mental  integrity  may  be  more  or  less 
affected.  The  pent-up  denizens  of  the  courts  and 
alleys  of  our  large  towns,  surrounded  on  every  side 
by  imperfect  light,  bad  air,  and  the  general  aspects 
of  low  life,  necessarily  degenerate  in  physical  com- 
petency, and  their  offspring  is  of  a  feeble  type. 

The  digestive  capability  of  the  town-dweller  is  of 
a  lower  standard  and  less  capable  of  dealing  with 
the  ordinary  articles  of  diet,  than  the  latter.  Con- 
sequently town-dwellers  live  on  such  food  as  they 
can  digest  without  suffering — bread,  fish,  and  meat; 
above  all,  the  last.  The  sapid,  tasty  flesh  of  ani- 


And  What  We  Gain         239 

mals,  which  sits  slightly  upon  the  stomach,  gives  an 
acceptable  feeling  of  satiety,  so  pleasant  to  ex- 
perience. Such  selection  is  natural  and  intelligible, 
but  it  is  fraught  with  danger.  I  quote  from  a 
former  paper:  "The  chief  diet  selected  by  the 
town-dweller  begets  a  condition  known  to  doctors 
as  the  uric-acid  diathesis,  with  its  many  morbid 
consequences.  Pulmonary  phthisis  and  Bright's 
disease  seem  Dame  Nature's  means  of  weeding 
out  degenerating  town-dwellers. "  Such  are  some 
of  the  medical  aspects  of  the  case. 

Mr.  Henry  T.  Finck  says  in  his  Romantic 
Love  and  Personal  Beauty  : 

I  am  convinced  from  many  experiments  that  the 
value  of  country  air  lies  partly  in  its  tonic  fra- 
grance, partly  in  the  absence  of  depressing  foul 
odors.  Now  the  tonic  value  of  fragrant  meadow 
or  forest  air  lies  in  this  —  that  it  causes  us  involun- 
tarily to  breathe  deeply,  in  order  to  drink  in  as 
many  mouthfuls  of  this  luscious  aerial  Tokay  as 
possible;  whereas  in  the  city  the  air  is, —  well,  say 
unfragrant  and  uninviting,  and  the  constant  fear 
of  gulping  down  a  pint  of  deadly  sewer-gas  dis- 
courages deep  breathing.  The  general  pallor  and 
nervousness  of  New  York  people  have  often  been 


240     What  We  Lose  and  Gain 

noticed.  The  cause  is  obvious.  New  York  has 
the  dirtiest  streets  of  any  city  in  the  world,  except 
Constantinople  and  Canton;  and,  moreover,  it  is 
surrounded  by  oil-refineries,  which  sometimes  for 
days  poison  the  whole  city  with  the  stifling  fumes 
of  petroleum,  so  that  one  hardly  dares  to  breathe 
at  all. 


THE  DANGERS  OF  CUTTING  LOOSE 
FROM  TOWN  DRUDGERY 

THE  late  Matthew  Arnold  found  nothing 
more  characteristic  to  say  about  us  than 
that  we  Americans  and  our  institutions  are  un- 
interesting. The  length  of  our  railroads,  our 
piles  of  money,  our  big  buildings,  our  vast 
spaces  on  land  and  water  did  not  impress  him. 
The  human  interest  was  lacking  partly  because 
so  much  of  our  time  or  attention  and  our  talk 
was  taken  up  with  these  other  material  matters 
in  themselves  not  peculiarly  interesting.  Sir 
Lepel  Griffin,  in  a  harsher  review  of  us  and  our 
institutions,  says  that  he  would  rather  live 
almost  anywhere  than  here,  and  again  he  re- 
marks that  we  are  uninteresting.  As  a  nation, 
we  may  have  attained  to  a  higher  level  in  ma- 
terial matters  than  the  great  nations  of  the  Old 
World ;  but  the  work  of  our  public  schools  in 
turning  out  vast  armies  of  pupils,  knowing  all 

16 

241 


242    The  Dangers  of  Cutting  Loose 

the  same  things  and  viewing  everything  from 
the  same  standpoint,  necessarily  implies  mo- 
notony. In  our  views  of  what  makes  a  life 
worth  living  there  is  pretty  certain  to  be  a 
good  deal  of  this  monotony.  Ask  half  a  hun- 
dred men  and  women,  taken  at  random,  what 
makes  life  worth  living,  and  certainly  the  great 
majority  will  say  that  a  life  of  luxurious  idle- 
ness offers  the  greatest  opportunities.  At  least 
this  is  what  they  mean,  although  they  will  hesi- 
tate to  use  the  word  idleness,  as  contrary  to 
good  morals.  Given  good  health  and  an  ample 
income,  that  life  is  worth  living — to  the  liver 
at  least — may  be  considered  as  sure  to  follow 
in  the  general  estimation  of  people.  Never- 
theless most  of  us  can  point  out  some  people 
who  have  health  and  more  money  than  they 
know  what  to  do  with,  and  yet  do  not  live  a 
life  which  we  consider  the  best  that  they  could 
lead. 

I  will  define  a  life  worth  living  as  the  one 
which  offers  out-door  work  and  sport,  freedom 
from  anxiety,  and  plenty  of  intellectual  exer- 
cise. I  doubt  whether  a  man  who  passes  more 
than  three  fourths  of  his  waking  hours  in-doors 


From  Town  Drudgery        243 

can  remain  a  healthy  animal  or  get  the  enjoy- 
ment out  of  life  which  the  mere  sense  of  phy- 
sical well-being  gives.  The  doctors  tell  us  that 
the  physical  trend  of  people  who  live  in  great 
cities  is  one  of  steady  deterioration ;  the  cities 
must  be  constantly  recruited  from  the  country. 
To  me  the  persistent  city  man  who  never  goes 
beyond  the  brick  walls  and  paved  streets  is  en- 
titled to  pity  very  much  upon  the  same  ground 
as  are  the  animals  we  see  in  our  menageries. 
Centuries  of  wrong  living  have  evolved  a  peo- 
ple who  stand  confinement  and  bad  air  wonder- 
fully well,  but  Nature  takes  her  revenge  in  one 
way  or  another.  Nevertheless,  we  stand  our 
artificial  existence  so  well  that  most  of  us  for- 
get that  it  is  an  artificial  existence.  As  animals 
we  ought,  by  rights,  to  be  in  the  sunlight  from 
morning  till  night.  Our  ancestors  of  a  few 
thousand  years  ago,  who  foraged  the  woods 
and  waters  for  birds  and  fish  which  they  de- 
voured raw,  slept  well  in  their  caves  after  the 
day's  chase,  and  knew  nothing  of  half  the 
ills  we  now  live  in  dread  of.  When  Thoreau 
notes  that  the  sports  of  civilized  man  were  the 
labors  of  uncivilized  man,  does  he  not  indict 


244  The  Dangers  of  Cutting  Loose 

civilization  ?  Man  has  given  up  play  as  a 
means  of  getting  a  living.  To  some  extent  we 
go  back  to  the  rational  life  when  we  can.  The 
rich  Wall  Street  gambler,  the  rich  dealer  in 
lard  or  leather  sometimes  goes  back  to  the 
woods  in  summer  or  ploughs  the  wave  in  his 
yacht.  But  very  few  of  us  get  rich — perhaps 
one  in  a  thousand.  Is  there  no  way  of  getting 
back  to  a  rational  life  without  first  winning  a 
fortune,  something  which  comes  to  so  few? 

I  am  aware  that  here  many  a  reader — pro- 
vided I  am  so  fortunate  as  to  have  many  readers 
— will  say :  "Oh,  we  have  heard  all  this  before ; 
it  is  the  old  story  of  moving  to  the  country  in 
order  to  raise  cabbages  for  a  living.  It  is  one 
more  variation  upon  the  Ten  Acres  Enough 
idea."  To  some  extent  it  is  a  variation  upon 
that  famous  book,  but  with  a  difference.  The 
hundreds  of  writers  who  have  taken  up  the 
chief  idea  of  Ten  Acres  Enough — the  possibility 
of  earning  a  livelihood  by  out-door  work,  gar- 
dening, fishing,  etc. — have,  without  exception, 
so  far  as  I  know,  begun  with  the  assumption 
that  when  life  becomes  impossible  in  town  then 
the  country  should  be  sought.  In  one  case  it 


From  Town  Drudgery        245 

is  the  broken-down  merchant,  tired  of  meeting 
notes,  tired  of  the  long  struggle  to  ward  off 
bankruptcy,  who  finally  says  to  himself:  "I 
will  sell  out  my  business  and  with  the  proceeds 
buy  a  strawberry  patch,  upon  which  I  can  raise 
enough  fruit  to  support  my  family  in  comfort." 
And  he  does  it — in  the  book.  Again,  it  is  the 
family  of  the  merchant  who  dies  bankrupt  who 
give  up  their  city  house  in  order  to  find  pleasure 
and  profit  in  keeping  cows  and  selling  butter 
at  a  dollar  a  pound — in  the  book.  I  have  quite 
a  collection  of  books  written  by  enthusiasts 
upon  country  life,  and  I  know  some  persons 
who  have  acted  upon  the  suggestions  given, 
sometimes  with  very  unfortunate  results.  But 
invariably  this  country  life  is  considered  as  an 
asylum.  So  long  as  a  man  can  live  in  the  city 
and  pay  his  notes  and  buy  dresses  for  the 
family,  it  is  not  for  him  to  think  of  trying 
the  country.  The  man  who  falls  behind  in  the 
race  is  advised  to  retreat  to  the  country  and 
take  to  strawberry  raising. 

I  contend  that  the  strawberry  raising  or 
whatever  out-door  work  is  chosen  as  a  means 
for  making  a  livelihood  should  be  preferred, 


246  The  Dangers  of  Cutting  Loose 

taken  all  in  all,  to  the  city  life  even  if  this  city 
life  is  fairly  successful  in  a  commercial  sense, 
and  I  hold  this  for  the  simple  reason  that  it 
offers  emancipation  from  some  of  the  worst  of 
city  evils,  while  its  drawbacks — and  there  are 
drawbacks  —  are  insignificant  as  compared  to 
the  advantages  gained.  Take  half  a  dozen  of 
the  most  successful  city  men  you  know  and 
consider:  (i)  How  much  healthy  exercise  in  the 
sunshine  they  have;  (2)  How  much  of  their 
life  is  passed  with  their  children  and  family; 
(3)  How  much  intellectual  exercise  do  they  get 
out  of  life,  how  many  books  worth  reading  do 
they  open  in  the  course  of  the  year? 

In  olden  times,  and  in  fact  in  recent  times 
until  the  power  press  and  cheap  postage  ap- 
peared, the  dweller  in  the  country  was  largely 
cut  off  from  intellectual  intercourse.  He  had 
his  few  books,  as  a  rule  costly  and  therefore 
few,  and  that  was  all.  To-day,  no  matter  how 
distant  the  hamlet,  the  mail  reaches  it,  and  for 
a  trifle  the  newspapers  and  magazines  bring  him 
the  best  thoughts  of  the  world  together  with  a 
record  of  what  men  who  like  the  fuss  and  the 
noise  of  towns  are  doing.  It  is  no  longer 


From  Town  Drudgery        247 

necessary  to  live  with  the  throng  in  order  to 
know  what  is  going  on  where  crowds  meet,  and 
all  signs  go  to  show  that  in  the  future  it  will  be 
still  less  necessary.  The  phonograph,  to  speak 
of  but  one  wonder  of  the  near  future,  offers 
extraordinary  things  to  the  man  who  wants  to 
get  away  from  the  crowd.  The  perfected 
phonograph,  and  there  can  be  no  reasonable 
doubt  as  to  its  future  perfection,  whether  this 
is  achieved  a  year  or  twenty  years  hence,  will 
not  only  give  us  books  at  a  cost  insignificant  as 
compared  to  that  of  ink  and  paper,  but  in  a 
far  pleasanter  form  ;  it  will  be  a  pleasant  reader 
always  ready  to  read  by  the  hour  or  the  day. 
Not  only  this,  but  it  will  give  us  music  of  any 
kind — the  latest  song  or  the  newest  orchestral 
symphony  in  a  manner  to  be  enjoyed  even  by 
experts.  So  much  has  been  accomplished  with 
the  phonograph  that  nothing  seems  to  be  too 
extraordinary  to  claim  for  it.  It  is  no  dream 
to  say  that  as  a  means  of  communicating 
thoughts  and  words,  the  phonograph  will  do 
more  for  the  world  as  an  educator  than  print- 
ing. In  the  future,  authors  will  not  write  their 
books — they  will  read  them,  and  phonographic 


248     The  Dangers  of  Cutting  Loose 

copies  of  the  result  will  be  so  cheap  that  our 
books  of  to-day  will  seem  extravagantly  dear 
in  comparison.  With  music  it  will  be  the  same 
thing,  only  that  the  phonograph  will  do  in  this 
field  what  it  has  never  been  possible  to  do  be- 
fore. To  provide  for  the  intellectual  food  of 
man  was  formerly  more  difficult  than  to  pro- 
vide for  his  physical  sustenance.  To-day  it 
is  the  other  way.  In  the  future,  thanks  to 
electricity,  that  great  power  of  coming  ages  by 
which  the  forces  of  nature  are  to  be  harnessed, 
food  and  clothing  and  everything  that  ma- 
chinery can  make  will  be  inconceivably  cheap. 
Some  thinkers  believe  that  even  by  the  year 
2000  one  hour's  work  a  day  will  suffice  to  give 
a  man  more  comforts  and  luxuries  than  he  now 
earns  by  eight  or  ten  hours'  work.  It  will  be 
argued,  of  course,  that  what  man  considers  his 
necessaries  will  grow  faster  than  his  means  for 
supplying  them  :  in  those  favored  days  to  come 
the  day  laborer  will  deem  himself  unfortunate 
if  he  cannot  dwell  in  marble  halls  and  eat  off 
gold  plate.  Nevertheless  there  is  a  point  when 
we  can  say  that  a  man  is  well  sheltered  from 
the  elements,  well  clothed,  well  fed ;  intellectual 


From  Town  Drudgery        249 

food  in  the  shape  of  books  and  newspapers  will 
then  be  so  cheap  as  to  be  scarcely  worth  con- 
sidering. It  is  probable  that  in  those  days 
people  will  not  herd  together  at  the  sacrifice  of 
sunshine  and  quiet. 

The  workman  of  to-day  earns  by  his  day's 
labor  twice  as  much  food  and  four  times  as 
much  manufactured  goods — clothes,  tools,  fur- 
niture—  as  his  father  did  in  the  same  time. 
When  we  come  to  books  and  newspapers  the 
contrast  is  more  astonishing.  The  average 
mechanic  can  now  buy  for  one  day's  work 
more  books  than  a  month's  work  would  have 
brought  him  a  century  ago,  or  a  year's  work 
would  have  brought  him  in  the  Middle  Ages. 
More  than  that,  thanks  to  cheap  postage  and 
circulating  libraries,  books  are  to  be  had  almost 
for  the  asking.  One  of  the  things  that  the 
Government  could  do  for  the  intellectual 
growth  of  the  country  would  be  to  make  the 
postage  upon  books  almost  nominal.  This  is 
done  in  the  case  of  newspapers,  which  are  sent 
through  the  mails  to  subscribers  for  one  cent  a 
pound ;  but  in  the  case  of  books,  postage  is 
still  exorbitant. 


250     The  Dangers  of  Cutting  Loose 

That  there  are  certain  deprivations  in  living 
in  the  country,  especially  in  isolation,  goes 
without  saying.  First  and  chief  my  critics 
are  pretty  certain  to  note  the  absence  of  all 
society,  certainly  a  loss  if  one's  position  in 
city  life  is  such  as  to  give  him  the  society  of 
cultured  people  and  the  time  to  enjoy  such 
society.  Nor  is  the  raising  of  cabbages  or 
strawberries  for  market  by  any  means  a  life 
of  luxurious  idleness.  Even  where,  as  in  my 
case,  the  object  is  not  to  earn  money,  but  to 
save  it,  there  are  early  hours,  soiled  hands,  and 
a  tired  back;  some  of  my  friends  to  whom  I 
have  expounded  the  gospel  of  idleness — as  they 
call  it,  although  I  see  nothing  of  idleness  in  the 
raising  of  cabbages  and  strawberries — say  that 
just  in  proportion  to  my  success  as  a  straw- 
berry grower  will  be  my  loss  in  other  direc- 
tions. They  say  that  a  day  of  hard  physical 
labor  in  the  fields  will  not  end  with  the  reading 
of  a  good  book  or  magazine  article,  but  in  doz- 
ing off  at  eight  o'clock.  Farmers  must  keep 
farmers'  hours.  I  have  made  some  experiments 
in  this  field.  I  have  found  that  whether  or  not 
we  go  to  bed  at  nine  o'clock  depends  wholly 


From  Town  Drudgery        251 

upon  whether  we  accustom  ourselves  to  going 
to  bed -at  that  hour.  It  may  require  at  first 
some  exertion  and  many  yawns  to  get  through 
a  certain  book  or  an  article,  especially  if  it  is  a 
stupid  one,  before  going  to  bed.  But  it  will 
get  easier  and  easier  until  the  day  will  not  seem 
to  be  properly  wound  up  without  the  two 
hours'  reading.  The  family  circle  in  which 
reading  aloud  is  not  one  of  the  customary 
evening  employments  misses  one  of  the  great 
enjoyments  of  life  as  well  as  a  potent  means 
of  educating  the  children.  The  boy  or  girl 
who  learns  to  know  and  love  the  best  books  of 
Thackeray,  Scott,  and  Dickens  is  pretty  sure 
to  have  an  interest  in  good  reading  through 
life.  But  the  habit  of  reading  for  an  hour 
every  evening  and  perhaps  devoting  half  an 
hour  to  some  standard  work  not  a  novel,  is  not 
to  be  cultivated  without  some  effort,  and  some 
sacrifice  in  other  directions.  One  of  the  most 
valuable  gifts  of  a  liberal  education  is  the  ability 
to  find  an  interest  in  books.  Unfortunately, 
but  very  few  people  know  how  to  read.  The 
great  number  have  never  learned  when  young; 
when  in  middle  life  their  time  has  been  too 


252  The  Dangers  of  Cutting  Loose 

much  taken  up  with  money-making;  when  the 
money  was  made  and  there  was  plenty  of 
time,  the  faculty  of  finding  interest  in  things 
above  every-day  detail  had  died  for  want  of 
cultivation. 


THE   END 


Our  European  Neighbours 

Edited  by  WILLIAM  HARBUTT  DAWSON 

12°.    Illustrated.    Bach,  net  $1.20 
By  Mail 1.30 

I — FRENCH   LIFE  IN  TOWN   AND  COUNTRY 

By  HANNAH  LYNCH. 

"  Miss  Lynch's  pages  are  thoroughly  interesting  and  suggestive. 
Her  style,  too,  is  not  common.  It  is  marked  by  vivacity  without 
any  drawback  of  looseness,  and  resembles  a  stream  that  runs 
strongly  and  evenly  between  walls.  It  is  at  once  distinguished  and 
useful.  .  .  .  Her  five-page  description  (not  dramatization)  of  the 
grasping  Paris  landlady  is  a  capital  piece  of  work.  .  .  .  Such 
well-finished  portraits  are  frequent  in  Miss  Lynch's  book,  which  is 
small,  inexpensive,  and  of  a  real  excellence." — The  London  Academy. 
"  Miss  Lynch's  book  is  particularly  notable.  It  is  the  first  of  a 
series  describing  the  home  and  social  life  of  various  European 
peoples— a  series  long-  needed  and  sure  to  receive  a  warm  welcome. 
Her  style  is  frank,  vivacious,  entertaining,  captivating,  just  the 
kind  for  a  book  which  is  not  at  all  statistical,  political,  or  contro- 
versial. A  special  excellence  of  her  book,  reminding  one  of  Mr. 
Whiteing's,  lies  in  her  continual  contrast  of  the  English  and  the 
French,  and  she  thus  sums  up  her  praises:  'The  English  arc 
admirable :  the  French  are  lovable."  " — The  Outlook. 

II — GERMAN  LIFE  IN  TOWN  AND  COUNTRY 

By  W.  H.  DAWSON,  author  of  "Germany  and  the 
Germans,"  etc. 

"The  book  is  as  full  of  correct,  impartial,  well-digested,  and 
well-presented  information  as  an  egg  is  of  meat.  One  can  only 
recommend  it  heartily  and  without  reserve  to  all  who  wish  to  gain 
an  insight  into  German  life.  It  worthily  presents  a  great  nation, 
now  the  greatest  and  strongest  in  Europe."— Com mercial  Advertiser. 

HI — RUSSIAN   LIFE  IN  TOWN   AND  COUNTRY 

By  FRANCIS  H.  E.  PALMER,  sometime  Secretary  to 
H.  H.  Prince  Droutskop-Loubetsky  (Equerry  to 
H.  M.  the  Emperor  of  Russia). 

"  We  would  recommend  this  above  all  other  works  of  its  charac- 
ter to  those  seeking  a  clear  general  understanding  of  Russian  life, 
character,  and  conditions,  but  who  have  not  the  leisure  or  inclina- 
tion to  read  more  voluminous  tomes.  ...  It  cannot  be  too  highly 
recommended,  for  it  conveys  practically  all  that  well-informed 
people  should  know  of  'Our  European  Neighbours.'  "—Mail  and 
Express. 


Our  European  Neighbours 


IV.— DUTCH  LIFE  IN  TOWN  AND  COUNTRY 

By  P.  M.  HOUGH,  B.A. 

Not  alone  for  its  historic  past  is  Holland  interesting,  but  also 
for  the  paradox  which  it  presents  to-day.  It  is  difficult  to  reconcile 
the  old-world  methods  seen  all  over  the  country  with  the  advanced 
ideas  expressed  in  conversation,  in  books,  and  in  newspapers.  Mr. 
Hough's  long  residence  in  the  country  has  enabled  him  to  present 
a  trustworthy  picture  of  Dutch  social  life  and  customs  in  the  seven 
provinces, — the  inhabitants  of  which,  while  diverse  in  race,  dialect, 
and  religion,  are  one  in  their  love  of  liberty  and  patriotic  devotion. 

"  Holland  is  always  interesting,  in  any  line  of  study.  In  this 
work  its  charm  is  carefully  preserved.  The  sturdy  toil  of  the  people, 
their  quaint  characteristics,  their  conservative  retention  of  old  dress 
aud  customs,  their  quiet  abstention  from  taking  part  in  the  great 
affairs  of  the  world  are  clearly  reflected  in  this  faithful  mirror.  The 
illustrations  are  of  a  high  grade  of  photographic  reproductions." — 
Washington  Post. 

V.— SWISS  LIFE  IN  TOWN  AND  COUNTRY 

By  ALFRED  T.  STORY,  author  of  the  "  Building  of 
the  British  Empire,"  etc. 

"  We  do  not  know  a  single  compact  book  on  the  same  subject 
in  which  Swiss  character  in  all  its  variety  finds  so  sympathetic  and 
yet  thorough  treatment ;  the  reason  of  this  being  that  the  author 
has  enjoyed  privileges  of  unusual  intimacy  with  all  classes,  which 
prevented  his  lumping  the  people  as  a  whole  without  distinction 
of  racial  and  cantonal  feeling." — Nation. 

"There  is  no  phase  of  the  lives  of  these  sturdy  republicans, 
whether  social  or  political,  which  Mr.  Story  does  not  touch  upon ; 
and  an  abundance  of  illustrations  drawn  from  unhackneyed  sub- 
jects adds  to  the  value  of  the  book."— Chicago  Dial. 

VI — SPANISH  LIFE  IN  TOWN  AND  COUNTRY 

By  L.  HIGGIN. 

The  new  volume  in  the  fascinating  series  entitled  ' '  Our  Euro- 
pean Neighbours  "  ought  to  be  of  special  interest  to  Americans,  as 
it  describes  faithfully,  and  at  the  same  time  in  a  picturesque  stvle, 
the  social  life  of  a  people  who  have  been  much  maligned  by  the 
casual  globe-trotter.  Spain  has  sunk  from  the  proud  position  which 
she  held  during  the  Middle  Ages,  but  much  of  the  force  and  energy 
which  charged  the  old-time  Spaniard  still  remains,  and  there  is  to- 
day a  determined  upward  movement  out  of  the  abyss  into  which 
despotism  and  bigotry  had  plunged  her. 


Our  European  Neighbours 


VII.— ITALIAN  LIFE  IN  TOWN  AND  COUNTRY 

By  LUIGI  VILLAKI. 

The  author,  who  is  a  son  of  Professor  Villari  of  lyondon,  taker; 
the  point  of  view  required  by  this  series,  i.e.,  he  looks  on  Italy  with 
the  eyes  of  an  Englishman,  and  yet  he  has  all  the  advantage  of 
Italian  blood  to  aid  him  in  his  sympathy  with  every  detail  of  his 
subject. 

"A  most  interesting  and  instructive  volume,  which  presents 
an  intimate  view  of  the  social  habits  and  manner  of  thought  of  the 
people  of  which  it  treats."—  Buffalo  Express. 

"A  book  full  of  information,  comprehensive  and  accurate.  Its 
numerous  attractive  illustrations  add  to  its  interest  and  value.  We 
are  glad  to  welcome  such  an  addition  to  an  excellent  series."— 
Syracuse  Herald. 

VIII.— DANISH  LIFE  IN  TOWN  AND  COUNTRY 

By  JESSIE  H.  BROCHNER. 

"Miss  Brochner  has  written  an  interesting  book  on  a  fascinat- 
ing subject,  a  book  which  should  arouse  an  interest  in  Denmark  in 
those  who  have  not  been  there,  and  which  can  make  those  who 
know  and  are  attracted  by  the  country  very  homesick  to  return." 
— Commercial  Advertiser. 

IX.— AUSTRO-HUNQARIAN   LIFE  IN  TOWN  AND 
COUNTRY 

By  FRANCIS  H.   E.   PALMER,  author  of  "  Russian 
Life  in  Town  and  Country,"  etc. 

Austria-Hungary  is  interesting  not  only  as  "the  meeting  place  of 
long-past  ages  and  modern  times,"  but  also  as  the  land  of  a  strange 
assemblage  of  races.  Among  these  numerous  peoples,  differing  in 
language,  religion,  and  habits  of  life,  there  exists  a  mutual  anti- 
pathy and  jealousy.  All  the  phases  of  this  life— industrial,  social, 
literary,  and  religious— are  adequately  considered  by  Mr.  Palmer. 

X — TURKISH  LIFE  IN  TOWN  AND  COUNTRY 

By  L.  M.  J.  GARNETT. 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S   SONS 
New  York  and  London 


Old  Paths  and  Legends 
of  New  England  :  :  :  : 

With  many  Illustrations  of  Massachu- 
setts Bay,  Old  Colony,  Rhode  Island, 
and  the  Providence  Plantations,  and  the 
Fresh  River  of  the  Connecticut  Valley 

By  KATHERINE  M.  ABBOTT 

8°,  very  fully  illustrated,  net,  $ 

THE  idea  for  this  book  grew  out  of  the  fact  that 
Miss  Abbott's  little  paper-bound  Trolley  Trips, 
describing  the  old  New  England  neighborhoods 
that  may  now  be  reached  by  the  trolley,  have  met  with 
an  astonishingly  wide  demand.  In  this  more  pretentious 
work  Miss  Abbott  has  utilized  her  fund  of  material  to 
draw  a  delightful  picture  of  the  quaint  byways  of  New 
England.  But  in  this  case  her  wanderings  are  not  lim- 
ited by  gaps  in  the  trolley  circuit,  or  by  daylight  or  car- 
fares. Historic  spots  of  national  interest,  curious  or 
charming  out-of-the-way  places,  Indian  legends  and 
Yankee  folk-lore  find  full  justice  in  Miss  Abbott's  enter- 
taining pages.  Fiction  could  never  interpret  New 
England  so  honestly  as  does  this  volume. 

G.    P.    PUTNAM'S   SONS 

New  York  London 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

405  Hilgard  Avenue,  Los  Angeles,  CA  90024-1388 

Return  this  material  to  the  library 

from  which  It  was  borrowed. 


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